Public Relations
by Drusilla Maxima
Summary: Draco hates Hogwarts and his apprenticeship, but he needs to rehabilitate his image to get access to his trust fund. Faking a friendship with his new co-worker, Hermione, seems just the ticket. His plans don't quite work out as intended... (mature readers only, adult content)
1. Chapter 1

Malfoy sat at the back of the teacher's lounge, perched as far away from Hermione as the cracked vinyl loveseat would allow. He'd shown up for late for the very first staff meeting of the year, and there had only been one free seat left - next to Hermione. At the front of the room Headmistress McGonagall droned on about school rules, patrol schedules, and work hours. The other staff paid rapt attention; Hermione couldn't listen with _him _sitting next to her.

Hermione leaned over. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

"I could ask you the same thing." His lip curled. "Aren't you supposed to be off doing Auror things with your two pals?"

"Auror?" she replied. "Why the hell would I become an Auror?"

"Because that's what self-righteous war heroes do, even if they don't have the entrance requirements like decent grades or even a school leaving certificate," he replied bitterly. "What are you doing in this Godforsaken hole?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm apprenticed to Minerva and I'm going to cover any teaching absences in Muggle Studies."

He snorted disdainfully at the mention of _muggle studies_.

"You haven't answered my question," she replied. "Why are _you _here? Surely an apprenticeship at Hogwarts is a bit pedestrian for the Most Noble House of Malfoy."

That one hit home. He scowled and crossed his arms petulantly over his chest.

"Trust fund," he muttered.

"Pardon me?" she replied.

"Trust fund. I'm here so I can get access to my trust fund." He frowned. "Believe me, Granger, I want to spend the year here with you as much as you want to spend it with me. But my father believes that I lack responsibility and that I need to rehabilitate my public image."

"Let me get this straight. Your apprenticeship here is a PR stunt?" She crooked an eyebrow. "That's moronic."

"It is _not _moronic. Think about how I'm mischaracterized by the Daily Prophet. I'm supposedly a two time attempted murderer who only was exonerated because of my age and the fact that my parents switched sides at the last minute. I'm known only for being a semi-decent Quidditch player, bedding half the Slytherin girls in my year, being able to outdrink half the Slytherin males in my year, and winning first place in Potions class."

"If that's how the Prophet characterizes you, I think it's rather accurate."

He scowled. "Anyhow, my father got the bright idea of sending me to this cesspool for a one-year Potions apprenticeship with Slughorn. It makes me look like a young man dedicated to his studies, who's willing to work with his hands at a pittance pay, a young man who loves children..."

"And how, exactly, is the Daily Prophet going to find out about your hardworking new life up here in the wilds of Scotland?" she asked.

"My father's set it all up. He bribed a paparazzo to come up here and snap photos of me." He yawned. "I've got to trot myself out to Hogsmeade once in awhile and pose affectionately with cute children and their familiars. Preferably muggleborn children. Once my father thinks my image has rehabilitated - and in his words, 'When you've learned some responsibility' - he'll give me access to the trust fund."

"And then?"

"I'm going to travel through America's sluttiest states - I'll begin in New Jersey - drink plenty of beer and Jack Daniels, and get stupid witches to shag me by wooing them with my English accent."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, if there's anything I can do to speed up the process, let me know."

"The feeling's mutual, Granger."

They fell into an uneasy silence. Malfoy tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, and it took all Hermione's effort not to slap his fingers at the irritating noise.

"Did you mean that?" he whispered after a moment.

"Mean what?" she asked.

"That you'd help me get the fuck out of this school."

"If it means less time with you, Malfoy, then yes."

"Fan-fucking-tastic." He smirked. "All I need is a photo op."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "A photo op of what?"

Malfoy looked her up and down. "We head out to Hogsmeade. You look like you're talking with me and we're generally being friendly. Daily Prophet photographer snaps a picture, it gets into the Celebrity Spotting pages. I instantly gain points by being friendly with a mud-muggleborn war heroine."

"It'll take more than a picture to wipe your reputation clean," she replied disdainfully.

"Small steps, Granger," he replied. "Every little bit helps get me out of here and into some hot young witch's bed."

"Ugh. And you wonder why you have difficulty rehabilitating your image."

He continued to smirk and ignored her, turning his eyes back to Minerva at the front of the room. The Headmistress gestured to Draco and Hermione.

"...our two new apprentices, Draco Malfoy in Potions, and Hermione Granger, who'll be studying Transfigurations with me. The two of them will be working closely together over the coming year to plan several important events for the students."

Hermione cringed. Working closely with Malfoy. For ten full months. It sounded like a prison sentence.

"Let's get that photo this weekend, Malfoy."


	2. Chapter 2

My dearest readers... I welcome concrit in reviews, but please avoid leaving me reviews that are misspelled and say things like "I dun lyke it". That's not going to help me improve! :-)

xxx

Hermione was alerted to Malfoy's presence by his voice.

"Merlin, Granger, couldn''t you have groomed yourself a bit?"

Or more specifically, his insult. She stopped leaning against the gates to the castle and turned to face him. He slinked down the path, dressed in a set of dark, dramatic robes that screamed 'emo kid in need of attention'.

Hermione glanced down at her much-more-practical jeans and Holyhead Harpies shirt (a sweet, if poorly considered, gift from Ginny).

"Malfoy, it'd be less believable if I showed up in a dress and high heels. It's a twenty minute walk through the mud to get to Hogsmeade."

"I'm not asking you to go full-on Princess Di, Granger, but brushing your hair might've been a start. Maybe a jacket, or a shirt with _sleeves, _at least..."

She glowered at him and he went silent.

"Better mistaken for a slob than a priest, Malfoy. You look like you're ready for the Pope's visit."

"I do not look like a priest. I'll have you know, these are de rigueur in Paris. They're straight from this year's resort collection!" He gestured at his own body. "Besides, it's not your slobbishness that concerns me. It's your loose hair and clingy Muggle clothes. You know, some older people consider it rather risque - loose hair and skimpy exotic outfits."

"You must be joking."

"You don't understand why looking freshly rolled out of bed might give old letches ideas? Leave the castle, spend time with a few septuagenarian wizards, and I bet you'll get your arse pinched a few times, or at least an offer of a roll in the hay."

"Ugh, you're disgusting, Malfoy."

"Just honest, _Granger_."

They fell into an uneasy silence as they meandered toward the village. The path was empty, and dry leaves crunched under their feet. About halfway there, Malfoy finally seemed to tire of the quiet, and spoke.

"Dromerius Pinksworth will snap a photo of us around Spintwitches."

She stopped for a moment in the pathway and stared at him with an expression that clearly said - _are you an utter moron? _

"Spintwitches? Why would I ever go anywhere near a sporting goods shop? You should've picked somewhere believable."

"Well, the hair salon seemed even less believable." He rolled his eyes. "I don't have three hours to waste watching you peruse Arithmancy texts at Tomes and Scrolls."

"For all you know, I could be a very efficient shopper."

He snorted. "I'm not blind, deaf and dumb. I did live alongside you for six years, even if I found you barely tolerable."

She glowered at him and they walked the rest of the way to Spintwitches in silence. The village was blessedly empty, so neither had to explain why they were in town, why they were _together_. However, that also meant that they had the entire road to themselves, and out of habit, they stood a good four metres away from one another. She concentrated on scuffing her foot against a rock.

_Great_, she thought, _what am I supposed to do now that I'm here? How does one look chummy with the most vulgar, self-involved, racist man in Britain? _

"Granger, try not to look so awkward. The photo is supposed to suggest that we're chums."

He spat out the word _chums_ like an insult.

She rolled her eyes. "Like you could be friends with a muggleborn. This photo's going to look as fake as Lavender's tits."

He gawked at her with an expression that clearly read - _who are you and where have you hidden sweet and prim Granger? _

His shock only lasted a minute before he slipped back into full-on arsehole-mode.

"The thought of endlessly bedding American trollops - and maybe a few Mexican and Canadian for novelty - could compel any man to be a great actor."

"And the reward of you leaving Britain permanently could inspire me to an equally BAFTA-worthy performance."

Setting her mind to appearing _chummy_, she decided that her and Malfoy's current look was far too awkward. You could fit a hippogriff between them; their expressions read _constipated_ rather than friendly. She moved in to an arm's length from him, and pasted a wide smile on her face.

"Granger, are you all right? You look like you're going to attack me... or maybe vomit, I'm not sure which."

"I'm trying to fake happy!"

"You're terrible at this. You just look nauseous." He sighed. "Think about a really good memory."

Snogging Ron? Nah, that was just messy.  
Snogging Krum? Better, but not enough to overwhelm her dislike of Malfoy.

She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the day when she'd clocked Malfoy right across his pointy, pretty nose, sending him bloodied and squealing like a little girl to Madam Pomfrey. And then she felt her cheeks burn with shame - after all, it was such a petty, lowbrow memory to feel such joy over.

"You're blushing, Mudblood." His voice dripped saccharine. "Thinking of long walks on the beach with Weasel?"

She smirked back at him. "Actually, no, just remembering the feel of my fist on your face."

His taunting grin vanished immediately, and he shifted subjects. "I can't even see Pinksworth here, and I'm getting uncomfortable, standing near you and having to talk with you for so long. I'm going into the Three Broomsticks for a pint. It'd probably be a good idea if you followed."

She scanned the village for the photographer, but saw nothing. When she turned back, Malfoy had already left her for the pub, the door swinging shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello Readers! I just wanted to say thank you to my reviewers and people who placed me on story alert/favourites. It makes me want to keep writing, and I appreciate it! Feel free to send concrit, technical or canon fixes, suggestions/questions... anything's fair game.

* * *

The Three Broomsticks was empty - not surprising for a Saturday lunch. Without waiting for Hermione, Draco had fetched a pint of stout and a packet of peanuts and had settled into a window seat. She ordered a bottle of butterbeer and sat across from him.

"Butterbeer, how risque." Draco rolled his eyes. "You could probably get sloshed off the fumes from my beer."

"I drink, Malfoy," she replied. "I just have zero interest in drinking with _you_."

He looked unconvinced, and took a minute to toss a peanut into his mouth, chew, and swallow.

"Riiight, Granger. What do you drink, then?"

"Pardon?"

"What - do - you - drink?" he repeated slowly. "See, _I'm_ drinking Scots Warlock Export Stout. _You _are drinking generic brand butterbeer."

"Oh, shut up. If I'm going to drink, I'll have whatever Ron or Harry chooses, which ends up being the cheapest hard liquor in the shop. They're partial to ASDA brand white rum with Lilt." She paused. "But if I was picking, I like elf-wine... riesling, or maybe a gewurtztraminer. Or muggle wine, they're both nice."

He snorted and gestured to Hannah Abbott behind the bar. "Madam, a glass of dry white wine for Miss Granger, will you?"

"What are you doing?" Hermione hissed. "I am not drinking that."

"I suspected you were full of shite." He smirked triumphantly. "My sense of reality would be damaged if I saw you behaving anything but nun-like."

"I'm not drinking it because it's apt to taste like shite - just look at the sort of pub we're in - and because it's half twelve. I do tend to wait until five o'clock, at least."

They both went silent as Hannah arrived at the table with a grapefruit-sized wineglass filled to the brim. Hannah retreated back to the bar, leaving Draco to speak freely.

"If I've ordered it, it won't taste like shite. Being a Malfoy gets you the best," he replied dismissively. "And who cares if it's half-noon? Just think about what a crappy life we have at Hogwarts, and you'll soon acquire a taste for liquor."

He pushed the glass toward her, his lips quirked in a half-smile.

She paused, thinking about her shitty salary, how much she disliked all the intellectually lazy children, and how Ron and Harry hadn't bothered to owl her for more than two weeks. There was a chance she'd end up spending a full year partnered with Malfoy on moronic grunt work like organizing Careers Days and offering guidance counseling. Hell - she was freely spending her Saturday lunchtime in a bar with her worst enemy.

It was all rather pathetic, all things considered. She lifted the glass to her nose, took a sniff - God, it smelled fantastic - and took a deep swig.

"You're right," she said. "All this crap attached to our apprenticeships - wiping noses, cleaning down counters - it's the last thing I want to do."

She took another deep swig, and another, and almost without warning, the glass was half-empty.

"Slow down there, Granger. I don't want to carry you home."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And I really don't want you touching me. If for some reason a single glass of wine leaves me unconscious, I'd appreciate if you left me untouched and fetched a healer."

He shook his head, downed the last of his pint, and gestured for another. "Are you always like this? Your behaviour's quite unladylike."

"I suppose when your friends are 'I killed all my brain cells with peroxide' Parkinson and 'Sherlock Holmes invented the toilet' Bulstrode, your standards for female intellect wouldn't be high." She frowned. "Besides which, you don't even know me."

She reached over and stole his abandoned remnants of his peanuts, absently tipping the last few of them into her mouth.

"Well, we won't be able to say that by the end of the year. I'm sure we'll know each other rather well. Either that or one of us will be dead." He folded his hands together and stared at her. "If this is what you're like after one glass, what are you like when you're really sloshed? Angry? Happy? Sluttish?"

"That's for me to know," she replied, finishing off her wine. "And you'll never find out."

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence once again. Hannah stood behind the bar, pretending to scrub it down while staring openly at Hermione and Draco. Hermione's face flushed, and she wondered how long she'd have to stay before they could safely assume Pinksworth had his photo - and Malfoy would be gone forever.

It was all so... horribly uncomfortable.

"I can see it in your face. Don't worry, I'm just as eager to get out of here as you are for me to leave," he snapped. "Why would my father be so cruel? My mother told him I wasn't cut out for this..."

Hermione laughed loudly. "You _are _a rather delicate sort, aren't you?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I think that's enough of an opportunity for photographs, _Mudblood_. I'm heading back to the castle."

His hands dipped into his robe pockets and pulled out a handful of galleons. He dropped enough onto the table to pay for both his and Hermione's drinks, and hurried out. Hannah kept gawking. Hermione feigned a sheepish look at Malfoy's dramatic exit, suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, and followed him out.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the delay, readers! My computer has a horrible little virus where it pretends to run the disk checker... and then makes my desktop icons vanish! Cross your fingers and say a little prayer that I'll get it fixed, because I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to upload fanfics on my work computer... ;-)

* * *

Since he'd stormed out of the Three Broomsticks, Hermione had spent a blissful Malfoy-free day around the castle. He hadn't been in the library, or the staff room, and hadn't shown up for breakfast in the Great Hall.

Or at least the first twenty minutes of breakfast. She scowled into her eggs as she heard the familiar sound of patent leather shoes stalking over wooden floorboards.

_Well, _Hermione mused, _it was wonderful while it lasted. _

Malfoy stormed up to Hermione's place at the Head Table and slapped a copy of Witch Weekly in front of her breakfast plate. When she looked up from her rashers, she realized that at least a dozen of the students, from every house, were now staring in her and Malfoy's direction. Why?

She chalked it up to Malfoy's noisy, boorish entrance and looked back down at her plate.

"What's your problem this time, Malfoy? I'm trying to eat breakfast." Hermione yawned and swirled a buttery toast soldier around her egg yolks. "Surely it can wait."

"Read it, Granger."

He sat down in the chair next to hers, but kept himself an arm's length away.

She picked up the paper and skimmed the headline.

"An article about carcinogens in anti-wrinkle Potions? Malfoy, that's just a sad attempt at an insult, considering I'm still in my teens," she replied, shoving the paper back toward him.

"Not that, you moron," he snapped. "The left side of the page."

She flipped over the magazine. Her face blanched.

It was a picture of the two of them. The photo at the bottom had been taken through the window of the Three Broomsticks. It showed Malfoy ordering a glass of wine and sliding it across the table toward her. Her stealing his peanuts and eating them. And Malfoy laughing. And her laughing back.

It looked so _chummy_. So _wrong_. People would get _entirely _the wrong impression.

Then she read the title.

**Malfoy and Granger: Love Spell, or Autumn Romance?**

"Fuck," she muttered. "They must be joking."

"Keep reading."

_Hermione Granger, noted war hero, intellectual, and Transfigurations apprentice at Hogwarts School, has always been known for her quick wit and intelligent choices. So when Witch Weekly photographers snapped pictures of her taking a long, romantic walk with Draco Malfoy, Potions apprentice and (former) dark wizard, we were shocked!_

_Uncharacteristically, Miss Granger was snapped spending time around a local sporting goods shop before going to a bar and drinking vast quantities of alcohol - all paid for by Draco Malfoy! An eyewitness told us, "They sat there for a good half hour talking about everything under the sun. The sexual tension between them positively crackled. Their argument got more and more heated until the two of them got up, threw money down on the table, and hurried off together for the castle."_

_Has Miss Granger, like so many women before her, fallen for this bad boy with a tarnished past? Is she attracted to the Malfoy name and Malfoy money? Or, as some have suggested, has Malfoy slipped her a potion to secure a respectable woman at his side? Either way, we at Witch Weekly will be keeping an eye on this unexpected new couple!_

"I told you Spintwitches was a stupid idea!" she replied loudly. "And all the parts about me are complete lies. Vast quantities of alcohol? Crackling sexual tension? What utter shite! You called me a Mudblood, for God's sake!"

"This went all wrong. What will my friends think?" He cringed. "Oh, God, what will my father say? He'll kill me. My trust fund. I'll never get it now. I'll have to work at Burger Villa or worse, the Ministry..."

His breath came in shorter gasps, and his lily-white cheeks coloured. Hermione actually felt a flicker of sympathy for him.

"Come on now, Malfoy, it's not that bad. It's just Witch Weekly, some stupid rag for flighty women and gay men."

Hermione caught Blaise shooting her a dirty look from across the table, and only then noted the name on the subscription label - _B. Zabini_. She mentally filed that information for later and turned back to Malfoy.

"Really, Malfoy, it'll be forgotten in a couple of days when they snap a picture of Ron or Harry snogging some random witch again. And it's not as if your father reads this rag." She awkwardly patted his arm.

His head snapped up, and she wondered if he'd spit venom at her for having the audacity to touch his delicate pureblood skin.

He didn't though. Instead, he nodded. "You're right. I just..." He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "My plans rarely royally fuck up like this."

She considered - briefly - mentioning that whole 'supporting the Dark Lord' bit, but at his melancholy expression, decided better.

Instead, she offered a sympathetic smile. "I'd panic too, if I thought I'd end up shouted at by your father and working at Burger Villa."

He looked back at her, and their eyes met in a measure of understanding that surprised them both. Hermione almost - almost - saw a smile on his lips. She knew this was a fragile, fleeting moment, this unguarded Malfoy, and she spoke tentatively.

"You _did _say you wanted people to think you were friendly with a Muggleborn," she said softly.

"I didn't intend them to think I was quite that friendly." He frowned. "And that stupid magazine basically painted me as a whore."

"Because that's so incredibly off the mark."

There was little venom to her barb. He opened his mouth to respond, but never got the opportunity. Headmistress McGonagall stormed up to them and rather rudely pointed at Malfoy.

"Mister Malfoy, your father is in my personal office and refuses to leave. He insists on speaking to you immediately."

Malfoy's eyes widened into silver saucers, and Hermione cringed. Now she felt really, really sorry for him.

"I'll come along," Hermione heard her traitorous voice speak up. "After all, I'm fairly certain he's here because of me."

"I don't need you to defend me, Granger," he snapped, suddenly back on the defensive.

"I'm not planning on defending you, Malfoy. You can defend yourself. I just want to make it very, very clear to your father that I'd rather go permanently celibate than shag his pure-as-snow son. I know what you Malfoys do to people who get on your wrong side."

"When my father sees how _charming_ you are, he'll know I wouldn't touch you with a forty foot pole," he replied.

McGonagall watched their repartee with an increasingly impatient expression.

"To my office right now, Mister Malfoy. As for you, Miss Granger, if you want to accompany him, feel free, although I wouldn't consider it your wisest course of action."

Hermione glared at McGonagall's retreating back and stormed out of the Great Hall with as much righteous defiance as she could muster. Malfoy, still wearing a vaguely nauseated expression, followed Hermione out.


	5. Chapter 5

Long chapter, concrit as always is very welcome. I'm actually experiencing a little writer's block at this point, so cross your fingers that I un-block my brain. **Updated on December 11 only to fix an ugly spelling error.**

* * *

Lucius Malfoy stood at the back of the Headmistress' office, his hands clasped delicately behind him. Even the back of Lucius's head looked scary, Hermione thought inwardly. Her eyes flickered to her left, still expecting Ron and Harry to be there for moral support. Instead, she met Draco Malfoy's grey eyes - and they looked equally unnerved.

She felt a flicker of pity. How horrible would it be to have a man so intimidating as a father? Even his hair sat perfectly smooth on his head, as if he'd hexed away every errant strand.

"Son..." Lucius stood, and his lips twisted into a scowl at the sight of Hermione. "You decided to join us to discuss the article, Miss Granger. How nice."

Clearly, Lucius did not find it _nice_ at all. Hermione decided to just get it over with.

"I just wanted to say, Mister Malfoy, that that photograph and article portrayed your son and I in a completely false light. I am not interested in... fraternizing... with him in any way, or vice versa."

They all stood in awkward silence for a moment. Hermione's face flushed at the elder Malfoy's disdainful stare.

"Well... that's all, I suppose. I'll leave you to speak with your son."

She turned and fled, leaving the elder Malfoy to curl his lip in disdain at her.

"That girl is about as charming as a doorknob," Lucius muttered. He whipped out his wand and Draco cringed. "Silencio!"

"Why'd you do that?" Draco asked.

"Think, Draco. I'd rather speak to you without the various portraits spying," he snapped. "I saw the article. Your mother has a subscription, though I suppose you forgot. Would you care to explain?"

Draco hesitated while he decided which tack to take. Finally, he settled upon answering with as few words as possible, as that generally resulted in the least amount of shouting or hexing.

"I'm not courting her," Draco replied.

"Well, clearly. I raised you better than that," Lucius snapped. "But what _are _you doing? Are you shagging her?"

"No! I don't go for that… sort!"

"I don't care if you shag mudbloods, just don't keep them around," he snapped. "Stop avoiding the question. What _is _going on?"

He sighed and plopped into a nearby armchair. "I thought it might improve my public image if Pinksworth snapped a photo of me looking chummy with her, what with her being a mudblood war heroine and all. They just invented the story."

"You've succeeded - in fact, the suggestion that you're in some sort of... relationship... will work all the better for you. That photo is convincing, and will rather improve your image amongst lefty bleeding-heart circles. I, of course, will spread the word to the better families that you're just doing it for your image. I don't want to jeopardize your chances of arranging a suitable marriage."

Lucius paused, as if waiting for a response from Draco. Draco searched his head for something appropriate to say.

"Erm... thank you, Father?"

Lucius nodded dismissively, and stalked to the door.

"One last thing, Draco," he murmured. "Your mother decided to look around the castle for you. You may want to find her before she does too much damage."

Without so much as a good-bye, he stalked out. Draco didn't have time to consider the conversation - he had to find his mother before she did something embarrassing.

xxx

Narcissa loved children. It really seemed a cosmic joke that after she'd spent a horrific seven years scrabbling to survive the war, her son now seemed incapable of producing an heir. Pansy was married and actively trying. Millicent had three by now. Theodore had a set of lovely identical twins. Every pureblood matriarch seemed to have a brood of adorable little grandbabies to dote on. Except her.

For years she'd suspected that perhaps Draco's playboy ways were simply a cover for his wand 'swinging the other way,' especially given how much time he spent with Zabini. But alas, it seemed that there was no prospect of either a wedding or a commitment ceremony in the near future for Draco. Just the revolving door of stupid bottle-blondes he found at bars.

But now, Witch Weekly had given her hope. By all accounts, Hermione Granger had the potential to be an excellent Malfoy wife. Pretty. Intelligent. Well-respected. She could put the family's name back to rights.

The only teensy weensy issue was the girl's blood ties. Granger, she knew, was as muggle as a con-puter. Her bloodlines would make Old Yeller look like one of the Queen's corgis.

So, she had to go and see the girl in person, make sure she was, in every other sense, Malfoy material.

Narcissa was oblivious to the stares she elicited from the children who remained for the last minutes of breakfast. She sashayed across the Great Hall and up to the head table, her eyes scanning for that distinctive frizzy hair.

There she was – Narcissa made a mental note to send the girl a bottle of Sleekeasy's and a well-trained house-elf for that rat's nest – chatting with Zabini.

"As Muggle music teacher, I have prerogative as to the curriculum," Zabini said dismissively.

"Spice Girls? Really? You could've chosen Beethoven, Wagner, the Beatles, and you chose Spice Up Your Life?"

"It's a positive message about woman power, Hermione," he replied, and only then noticed Narcissa standing nearby, watching them intently. "Oh. Mrs. Malfoy. Hello there."

"Hello, Blaise, dear," she replied airily, her eyes never leaving Hermione.

"Draco's gone to the Headmistress's office," Hermione offered stiltingly. "Um, about, um… five minutes ago. You can probably catch up with him if you hurry."

"I'm not here to see Draco, I'm here to see you, Miss Granger."

Hermione and Blaise both froze. Narcissa ignored it – of course people were apt to get a bit uncomfortable in her presence, given her husband's unsavoury past habits and her own regal comportment.

"Erm, why?" Hermione asked.

"You shouldn't say _erm, _dear. Take the time to consider your answer if you're unable to find the words." She smiled delicately. "I wanted to meet the woman who has won my son's heart."

Hermione made a sound like a distressed howler monkey and dropped her fork with a clatter.

"Won… your son…" Hermione shook her head. "I think you misunderstand…"

"I don't misunderstand, my dear. My son is very careful to avoid being seen with his flings. The fact that there's an enormous photo of you two in Witch Weekly means he's quite serious about you, I'm sure. And no need to worry, I certainly don't hold your blood ties against you. After all, I've been assured that you are both intelligent and charming beyond your years."

"Charming? Granger?" Zabini snorted.

Hermione elbowed him. "Mrs. Malfoy, have you discussed this with your husband or son?"

"Oh, goodness no. My son is forever branding me a meddler, simply because I detest his flighty, selfish flings. And my husband would simply ramble on about mudbloods and snakes and burning things – it can all be rather unseemly. No, love is a matter that takes a woman's touch, and that's why I wanted to come here and see you for myself."

Hermione paused, taking a full thirty seconds before replying. "That's very kind of you, Mrs. Malfoy, but I think you really should discuss this with your husband and son before discussing it with me."

"So you're a traditional young woman who defers to her menfolk! How wonderful in this day and age!"

Zabini feigned a cough to cover his laughter, and Hermione elbowed him more sharply this time.

"I must say, I can see why my son likes you. You're very pretty, despite the hair." Narcissa nodded. "Yes, I've decided. You should come for tea at the Manor."

"Tea…" Hermione whispered. "Manor?"

"Yes, yes. This weekend or the next, perhaps. I'll be off then. Enjoy your breakfast. Oh, and Blaise, it wouldn't hurt to apologize for rudely spraying juice all over Miss Granger's robes, even if they're work robes."

Narcissa turned around and came face to face with her son. Draco's face was white, his mouth opened in a round _o_, his eyes round and flinty.

"Mother. What. Have. You. Said," his voice was low.

"I, my darling, have come to see this wonderful young witch who's won your heart."

"Wonderful?" he squeaked. "Granger? She's a mud… muggleborn."

"See! I knew it! You can't even bring yourself to call her a mudblood!" Narcissa nodded. "I've invited her for tea at the Manor and she's gracefully accepted."

"I didn't…" Hermione began, but was interrupted by Draco.

"This is foolishness, Mother. You're meddling again."

"Tone, Draco." She tapped her foot, her only sign of irritation. "I'll be off to find your father before he gets into trouble again… taa taa, darling, owl me. I'll see you soon, Miss Granger."

She sauntered out with a satisfied smirk across her thin lips. Draco pointed at Hermione.

"Later, you and I are going to talk about this. But for now, I want to make sure she gets the hell out of here before she embarrasses me any further." He stormed off after her.

Hermione and Blaise sat in silence as the last few children and staff hurried out of the Great Hall to tell their friends about the Malfoy spat they'd all just witnessed.

"That was… awkward," Hermione finally murmured.

Zabini shrugged. "You impressed her, though I don't know how. Knowledge of the Spice Girls and inability to hold a fork without dropping it usually make people look stupid, not impressive."

"She must be comparing me to Draco's past few girlfriends," Hermione muttered. "Let's hope she just forgets about it."

Blaise nodded and opened her mouth, but they were interrupted by Headmistress McGonagall swooping in with a stormy expression.

"Mister Zabini, do you not have a third year class to teach?" she asked. "And Miss Granger, I asked you and Mister Malfoy to begin arranging careers classes two days ago and have yet to see any action. Breakfast has been over two minutes now, and I don't expect staff to lollygag when there's work to be done."

She stormed off. Blaise and Hermione exchanged sympathetic looks and hurried out, the spat with the Malfoys momentarily forgotten.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I wanted to say thank you to my reviewers. You took time from your own day to encourage a complete stranger, and your kindness obliterated my writer's block.

* * *

After classes, the teachers generally lounged around the staff room, sipping coffee from a magically-bottomless cups and complaining to one another about their respective students.

Which was exactly what Blaise Zabini and Hermione Granger were doing after a long, gruelling Wednesday.

"They're all tone-deaf, Granger. Really. That Bulstrode boy thinks he's the next Whitney Houston, but sounds more like William Shatner."

"That's nothing." Hermione took a swig of coffee. "One of my students today told me that Saddam Hussein was a boxer."

"Is that the same one who told you that Pistachio was the guy who painted the Mona Lisa?"

"Same." She shook her head incredulously. "I was never that stupid as a student."

Blaise shrugged. "I was lazy, but not stupid. Y'know, I'd skip class to hang out with the girls in the Room of Requirement. Draco and Theo were incredibly jealous and assumed I was getting laid, when really all the girls knew I was gay and wanted guy advice. Good times."

Hermione tried to glare in disapproval but ended up giggling at his happy expression. "Harry, Ron and I never really drank together. We were always too busy fighting."

"Where are your two heroic pals these days?"

"I don't know. I got an owl from Harry last week, but nothing from Ron. I guess he's busy."

"I thought there was something going on between you two?" Blaise asked.

"I thought so too." She shrugged sadly. "But he told me he really needs to focus on his studies."

"Aw, Granger, you shouldn't be..."

He was cut off when the door flung open. In stalked Malfoy, a smirk pasted across his thin lips. Hermione shivered at his expression - he looked _happy_, and Draco Malfoy's happiness tended to coincide with other peoples' unhappiness. Malfoy had avoided her - and everyone else - for two full days, preferring instead to sulk in his rooms. Hermione had actually begun to worry about him.

"You, as always, were right, Granger." He slapped a copy of the Prophet onto the table. "Yesterday our little Hogsmeade escapade earned a full page in the Prophet. Today, we're not even mentioned once. Thank your friend Weasel for me, will you?"

Hermione tentatively picked up the paper.

_**Ron Weasley's Wild Week! 48 Hours of Witches and Wine!**_

The photo showed an obviously drunk Ron, swigging chardonnay straight from the bottle, his shirt open and rumpled, and his face smudged with pink and red lipstick. Two trollops minced alongside him, their breasts nearly falling out of their robes and their eyes smudged with dark mascara.

_Since leaving school, Ron Weasley's life has spiralled out of control! The Prophet snapped a photo of him drinking on Sunday - and then drinking again on Monday afternoon with two Knockturn Alley witches. On Tuesday, we learned from classmates that Weasley has been placed on academic probation with the Auror training program. _

_Is he reacting to Miss Granger's new romance with Draco Malfoy? Or has the stress of the war finally taken its toll on the youngest Weasley son? Either way, we at the Prophet hope that his friends and family intervene before his behaviour takes a tragic turn! _

"Isn't it great?" Malfoy asked. "That ginger drunkard's going to take up a good half of Witch Weekly's next issue."

Hermione felt the tears prickling behind her eyes. Academic probation? Knockturn Alley girls? Drinking in the afternoon? Even if only a tenth of it was true, it still meant that Ron was ignoring her. That he wasn't interested in dating her. That he just plain didn't want to see her or talk to her.

And that hurt, after all they'd been through together.

She tossed the newspaper aside and hurried out before either of the boys could see her tears.

"You're such an arsehole, Draco," Blaise said.

"What?"

"You bloody well must've guessed she holds a torch for him."

"Weasley? You must be joking. He's so... thick."

"Maybe so, but you saw how she reacted." Blaise shrugged. "You might want to go and apologize to her."

"I don't apologize."

"Fine, let her cry the rest of the day. But she'll take it out on you and me, rather than Weasley, if you don't go and attempt to fix it."

Draco took a cup of coffee from his never-ending cup and leaned against the counter, waiting for him and Blaise's usual chat. Blaise pointedly ignored him and flipped through the copy of the Prophet that Hermione had dropped.

"Oh, fine," Draco huffed. "But I'm not apologizing."

xxx

He stood in front of Granger's door, feeling incredibly self-conscious. One of the sixth years rounded the corner, took a look at him standing at Hermione's door, and smirked. The girl had the audacity to _wink_ at him before retreating.

"Little shite," he muttered.

"Pardon?" he heard someone call out from Hermione's rooms. "Is someone there?"

Well, no chance of running away now.

"It's me..." He paused. "Malfoy."

The door swung open. Her eyes were red; her full, pink lower lip trembled. She looked so... sad and pathetic. It was thoroughly un-Granger-like, and Draco felt awfully uncomfortable seeing her this way.

"What do you want?" she demanded - ah, there was the usual Granger bitchiness.

"I came to apologize," his traitorous mouth blurted out.

Her eyes widened with shock. It took her a full minute before she found words to respond.

"It's fine. I over-reacted." She gestured. "Do... do you want to come inside?"

He hesitated; he'd never been inside a mudblood's home before. He'd never been pals with Granger. He suspected that by saying _yes_, he'd never be able to go back and say he hated mudbloods.

But could he even say that now? After he'd chatted with her over rashers every morning for the past three weeks?

He finally nodded. Hermione looked as startled as he felt. She opened the door wider, and he walked inside.

It wasn't what he expected. She'd charmed the stone walls so they instead looked smooth and painted pale blue. A Delft-print sofa sat against the far wall next to a puffy pale-yellow armchair. Photos of a middle aged woman and man hung over the sofa. A shelf in the corner overflowed with books, and her orange kneazle scurried past him. It looked _homey_.

"Sit down - anywhere's fine," she said. "I'm interested to know what you said to your mum and dad about our... relationship."

He snorted and settled into the sofa.

"My father realized it's fake but thinks it's a wonderful idea. In his words, 'bleeding heart lefties' will love it." His lips quirked. "My mother, on the other hand, believes we're in a grand romance."

"I hope you corrected her," Hermione said.

"You don't understand. My mother doesn't change her mind once she believes something. I told her we were faking it, and she decided that I was trying to hide our relationship because father's a pureblood supremacist." He sighed. "She desperately wants a daughter in law and a brood of grandchildren. It's her only real desire in life."

He didn't add that he really didn't see himself getting married; that he wasn't really husband material; and that his mother would be utterly crushed when he ran off to slut around the States.

"Don't look so depressed, Malfoy, we can call this fake relationship off whenever you want." Hermione smiled brightly. "Would a drink cheer you up? Tea? Elf wine?"

"I'm more in the mood for wine," he said. "And it's after five p.m., if you're wondering."

She laughed, moved to a nearby shelf, and pulled out a cheap store-brand bottle. She poured it into two chipped beakers and handed one over to Malfoy; he swallowed back any cutting insults about her taste in wine or her lack of glassware by taking a swig. She plopped into the yellow armchair next to him.

"It's probably for the best if we don't try for another photo op. I dislike the attention this charade has elicited. The magazine articles. The visit from my parents."

"I know you're upset by the fact that I was mistaken as your girlfriend." Hermione nodded sympathetically.

"It's not that. That's actually worked out quite well for me. How could people accuse me of being a bigot if I'm dating the most beloved muggleborn in Britain?" He thought for a moment before continuing. "And it could benefit you with Weasley, too."

Now she looked interested. She leaned in closer, her brow furrowing with concentration and her brown eyes wide.

"How so?" she asked.

"Look, Weasley's treated you like shite. The vast majority of twenty year old men - myself included - aren't difficult to figure out. He's not going to put in any effort if he knows he can come back here whenever he likes." Draco crossed his arms. "If you act like you don't need him, and that you're looking for someone new..."

"You think I could use it to make him jealous," Hermione said. "That's childish."

"But effective."

Hermione rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to speak. She didn't get the chance. Someone had begun beating against the wooden door.

"Hermione! Open up!"

Draco cringed. That voice was unmistakeable.

"It's open," Hermione called back tartly.

The knob swiveled and the door swung open with a long, ominous squawk.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter, still wearing their Auror-in-Training uniforms, stood outside the door.

* * *

AN: Sherlock Holmes invented the toilet? Pistachio painted the Mona Lisa? Saddam Hussein was a boxer? If you know who said these gems, five points to you!


	7. Chapter 7

Here's a Christmastime update for my loyal readers. I won't be posting any updates for a couple of weeks, as I've got several trials at work. (Say a little prayer that I win)

As always, post concrit/suggestions/things you liked, and thank you to the sweeties who added me to story alert/favourite stories list.

* * *

Ron's face turned mottled-red as his eyes flickered between Hermione and Malfoy. Harry looked embarrassed and hung back in the doorway. An oddly strangled sound escaped Ron's throat, reminding Hermione of a bull readying to charge.

"Yes?" Hermione demanded.

"Him!" Ron bellowed, sticking out his wand at Malfoy. "What did you do, Ferret-face? Amortentia? That's it, isn't it? I'll kill you, Malfoy, trying to bag my Hermione..."

"_Your _Hermione?" she asked tartly.

"Ron, calm down..." Harry said lamely.

"How terrifying! Death threats from the thickest, weakest member of the Golden Trio," Draco retorted simultaneously.

"Shut up, all of you!" Hermione bellowed. "Put away your wand or I'll take it, Ronald."

"I saw the article!" Ron shouted. "The one in Witch Weekly of you and... him!"

"That came out nearly three days ago. A little slow on the uptake, as always, Weasley." Draco sipped his wine. "Even my parents made it out here before you two wonders. I can see you'll make excellent Aurors."

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" Ron shouted. "We have other priorities! We don't just arse around planning lessons and reading dusty books..."

He seemed to realize what he'd just said and went silent. Hermione's brown eyes stared him down, and he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Pardon me, _Ronald_?" Hermione asked icily.

"Erm, well... I'm just saying, Hermione, I'm right busy..." He had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"Oh, yes, we were just reading about how _busy _you are, Weasley." Malfoy smirked.

"Be quiet, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "You're not helping."

Malfoy smiled sweetly back at her. "You can call me by my first name, Sweet Pea. There's no need to pretend now that we've gone public."

Hermione turned to him so Ron and Harry couldn't see - not that they would've noticed, with their wide, agog expressions trained firmly on Malfoy.

"_Sweet Pea?_" she mouthed.

Draco moved close to her, as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

"Play along," he whispered.

"See, Harry! He's charmed her! He's whispering orders into her ear... oh Merlin, maybe he's Imperiused her!"

"Are you suggesting that Hermione is incapable of defending herself, Weasel?" Draco asked.

It was Ron's final straw. He growled and dove toward Malfoy. Hermione lifted her wand and, with a flick of her wrist, shot the Sponge-Knees Curse at him. Ron skidded to a halt and grabbed one of Hermione's armchairs to keep from falling.

"Stop it, the both of you. Draco, you know Ron is rather impulsive. Stop taunting him."

"I'm sorry, Darling. I let myself get carried away."

_God, _Hermione thought, _he sounded perfectly sincere, down t__o the contrite gaze on his pointy face._ She glanced at Ron; he stared piteously back at her. At one time it might've made her feel sorry for him, but right now, after his suggestion that all she did was _arse around here with dusty books_, she felt nothing but annoyance.

"Hermione." Ron sighed deeply. "I thought there was something there between you and I."

"You mean a drunken foursome between you, her, and a pair of Knockturn Alley strippers?" Malfoy asked. "Somehow that doesn't seem Hermione's style."

Ron's face flushed. He opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again, as if deciding whether to speak. "Ah... I didn't think you'd seen that picture. Hermione doesn't usually read the Prophet's Celebrity section."

"But I do," Malfoy replied. "I know it's difficult for you to comprehend how one could enjoy reading something other than lad mags."

"You scheming bastard. You told her about that article! You did it to drive her into your arms!" Ron growled through clenched teeth, still clutching at the armchair. "Hermione, this is the racist, Dark Magic-loving slime we hated in school! How can you even look at him?"

"Ronald... people change."

And as she said it, she knew it was true. Ron had changed. She had changed. Malfoy had changed too - somehow, for the better. Even if she wasn't actually dating Malfoy, she no longer _hated _him. He was mean and sarcastic - but admittedly, she found him rather witty. She and Blaise laughed at his sour temper and snide jokes over their morning rashers and tea.

"So you're really okay with Malfoy?" Harry finally spoke. "You're giving him a second chance?"

Hermione hesitated, then nodded.

"Well... be careful," Harry murmured.

"I can't believe you, Harry," Ron squawked. "Doesn't anyone care?"

"No," Hermione snapped. "Because I'm a grown woman."

She pointed her wand at Ron and he cringed - but she simply released the curse. He crossed his arms and stood against the wall, refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

It was during this silent, awkward standoff that Blaise appeared at the door.

"Where are you, you big prat - oh, damn, didn't mean to interrupt. I wondered where Draco had gotten to." Blaise's eyes flickered around the tense room and finally settled on Draco. "Erm, are we still on for the Three Broomsticks?"

"See, Potter, Weasley? We have plans. So if you don't mind, why don't you run back to dormitories."

"Are you satisfied, Ron? I told you she was fine and you should've just sent an owl." Harry sighed. "Why don't you go chat with the Headmistress a bit? I want to talk with Hermione for a minute while you calm down."

Ron glowered extra-hard for a moment before stomping out. Blaise and Malfoy, recognizing they should go without being asked, ducked out after him.

"Hermione, you're not seriously dating Malfoy, are you?" Harry asked. "He's hasn't changed _that_ much, and neither have you."

Hermione shrugged. "No, of course I'm not. We're work colleagues. You know Malfoy - he can't pass up an opportunity to irritate someone he dislikes, and he _really _dislikes Ron."

"But he's been treating you okay? Malfoy, that is?"

"Actually, considering it's _Malfoy_, we've been getting along well."

Harry nodded, and Hermione felt his green eyes searching her face worriedly.

"Really, Harry. Blaise, Malfoy and I are getting along well." She smiled. "I suppose I should run after Ron and tell him the truth."

"Maybe you should wait... just let him stew for a couple of days." Harry's brow furrowed. "I'm hoping it'll be a wake-up call. He's been doing everything to excess lately - drink, drugs, partying. But he always expected you to wait for him. He was shocked when he thought you might be dating someone else."

"I'm sure the fact that it was _Malfoy _didn't help," Hermione added.

"You should've seen it." Harry laughed softly. "He was hung over from a fifth of cheap rye and the owl had just swooped by to drop off his academic probation. He decided to read about himself in the Celebrity section - he's a bit narcissistic that way - but ended up reading that you and Malfoy were an item. He nearly vomited."

"Serves him right." Hermione pursed her lips to keep from saying more. "You want to come for a drink?"

"I can't. Unlike Ron, I've taken my training seriously. I've got training at half six in the morning." He paused. "I'm glad you're on decent terms with those two Slytherin twats. I sometimes worry about you here by yourself."

"Hey, hey, don't forget about me." She punched him playfully on the arm. "I still like you better than the Slytherin twats."

He grinned, gave her a hug and went to the door. "I'll owl you."

The door shut behind him with a bang. Relief washed over her. Finally - time to herself, time to unwind. She settled into the sofa, savouring the rare moment of quiet.

Until thirty seconds later, when the door squawked open again.

"Argh, what do you want this time?"

Malfoy stuck his head in and smirked. "Your idiot pals are gone?"

"Yes, and no thanks to you. What happened to 'let's not have any more photo-ops because it's gotten complicated'? _Sweet Pea_?"

"I couldn't help myself. Weasley is so bloody arrogant. It's so easy to put him in his place." Draco shrugged. "Besides, you can't tell me that foul-mouthed lush doesn't deserve it."

She didn't deny it. "It complicates things, though."

"Life is complicated. It was worth it to see the self-satisfied grin wiped off his ugly face." He grinned and shut his eyes, obviously replaying it in his mind's eye. "What about Potter?"

"I told him the truth - that we're just work colleagues. Harry knows I'd never date you."

"You didn't tell him about our little deal?"

Hermione felt her face flush - why _hadn't_ she told Harry about her plan to get rid of Malfoy? A stark realization suddenly hit her - she didn't really care if Malfoy left anymore. She no longer cared whether there was a reward for their outings. Somewhere along the way, he had shifted from _Malfoy, intolerable racist prick_ to _Malfoy, often-prickish colleague_.

"So Potter thinks we're just coworkers. Weasel thinks we're dating. My father knows the truth, and my mother thinks we're practically married." He frowned. "You're right, that _is _unnecessarily complicated."

"Ugh. We should just come clean."

"Stop over-thinking, Granger. Owl Weasley tomorrow and tell him that I was taking the piss." He gestured to the door. "You still coming to the pub?"

"I figured you were just inviting me for show."

"I was, but we both need a drink, after the way this idiotic idea's unraveled," he said. "But don't make a habit of inviting yourself along, _Sweet Pea_. Remember, we're only fake dating. I don't want to have to break your heart at the end of this."

"Believe me, Malfoy, there's no chance of that," she replied. "Ever. Even with Amortentia or Imperius."

He snorted.

Blaise stuck his head in. "Can you two stop _flirting _and get out here? I've been waiting all day for a gin and soda."

The three of them hurried out of the castle for Hogsmeade together.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello all... I haven't forgotten about this story. I'm just a bit busy right now - and I'm also debating what should be the focus of the next few chapters. Narcissa? Ron? Harry? Ginny? Lucius? I'm overwhelmed by fun ideas. :)

* * *

Hermione and Draco sat at the back of the Great Hall. Eighty one students, all the seventh years, paid rapt attention to the two guest speakers presenting at the front of the room.

Draco cast a quick silencing charm. "Why did we do this again?"

"Because the Headmistress said we had to." Hermione frowned. "Don't look at me like I'm to blame, you and I for once are in agreement."

"This is moronic. Ninety percent of these dimwits either want to be Quidditch stars or wives-and-girlfriends. Careers Day is wasted on them. At best, they'll end up fry-cooks at a Diagon Alley pub." He sighed deeply. "I can't believe I'm expected to counsel and encourage these morons."

"Well, after listening to Harry and Ron give their speech, half of them will want to be Aurors rather than athletes."

"Fat chance. Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber are not what you'd call articulate."

"Like you should talk," Hermione bit back. "Goyle and Parkinson are as thick as concussed trolls."

"I didn't invite Pansy and Gregory to do a Careers lecture, did I?" he asked.

"Well I only asked them because they were so upset by your bitchy behaviour last time they came to the castle, Malfoy. I had to smooth things over somehow."

"_Bitchy _and _honest _aren't synonyms, _Granger_," he said pointedly. "I also notice you haven't told Weasley you were _lying_ about our grand romance. Could it possibly be that I was right, and making him jealous worked? It hasn't escaped my notice, Granger, that he's sent you a dozen letters since his last visit..."

Headmistress McGonagall shot her and Draco a warning glance and they went silent. Harry and Ron stood at the front of the room, gesturing enthusiastically as they continued their speech.

"...and, you know, being an Auror can be tough sometimes, because you've got to be good at hexes and work out, and you don't get to do a lot of the things you think you'll be doing. Like, in the wireless programme _Auror - Crime Scene Investigator_, Aurors are always chasing after rogue hit wizards or investigating multi-million galleon Potions smuggling rings..." Harry said.

"Oh, yeah, it's nothing like that. Lots of paperwork, super boring." Ron sighed. "Except, you know, remember that time we chased down that guy who stole a box of quills at Flourish and Blotts?"

"Right that was bloody fantastic." Harry perked up. "We got to throw lots of hexes."

"He was like... whoa! And we were like... fuckin' hell! And then... zoom! He was down."

"It was brilliant!" Harry said. "So here we were in the shop, and the place was just pins and needles..."

Ron interrupted excitedly, "Boom! And suddenly everything went whoosh and he was done!"

"Damned right he was!" Harry added.

Ron and Harry gave each other a high-five.

Draco turned to Hermione. "Can you translate from Moron to English?"

She cringed as a string of self-congratulatory profanity spilt from Harry and Ron's mouths and the two of them chest-bumped. "I have no idea. They never were the best at expressing themselves."

Minerva hurried to the stage. "Well, thank you, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, for your... enlightening talk. Please stay, if possible, to answer student questions afterward. Next up on our alumni panel is Pansy Parkinson Rosier Greengrass, here to talk about household management."

Hermione crooked an eyebrow toward Malfoy, but he shrugged. "I didn't invite her. I assume Zabini must've."

Pansy, now sporting platinum, waist-long hair and an orange tan, minced across the stage in a glittery robe and what looked to Hermione like Louboutin sandals.

"She looks halfway between Joan Collins and Kylie Minogue," Hermione hissed.

Malfoy gawked at Pansy's generous decolletage and nodded in agreement.

"Hello, all. You all look so... cute... in your baggy little polyester robes!" Pansy cooed.

Draco leaned toward Hermione's ear. "Point one for Pansy. She managed to string together a full sentence. A greeting, no less."

"An incredibly bitchy one."

"Because you're all honey and treacle, aren't you, Granger?"

Hermione looked back up at the stage, and caught Pansy's narrowed eyes and disdainful expression. Hermione instinctively tried to pat down her hair, and moved a few inches away from Malfoy - but Pansy's attention had already moved back to the crowd of students.

"Now, children, how many of you are independently wealthy?" Pansy asked them.

Two students stuck their hands proudly into the air. Slytherins, of course. Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Well, this is pointless. What am I supposed to say to the other eighty of you?" She sighed. "Well, we'll just have to give you as much practical advice as possible. Now, my first piece of advice to all of you less moneyed children is to make yourself beautiful. Primp, pluck, smooth your hair..."

Hermione felt her fingers itch for her wand. Just one stray hex... a tiny spell to shut the nitwit up...

Draco clucked disapprovingly at Hermione's blatant anger. Pansy blithely continued with her speech.

"...and find yourself an older wizard or witch with a lot of money. Your youth is your greatest asset, and by looking lovely, you can easily snag yourself a wealthy wife or husband who will lavish you with gifts and dinners. No need for lengthy courses of study or exhausting jobs! But one word of warning, make sure you don't date an advocate. Prenups are a pain in the arse..." Pansy continued.

"Look at McGonagall," Draco whispered.

The Headmistress's face had mottled red-purple. Hermione snorted. Clearly, Careers Day had not turned out the way Minerva had intended. She stalked onto the stage.

"Thank you, Mrs. Greengrass." McGonagall's smile looked completely forced. "It seems we've run out of time, how unfortunate."

Pansy glowered at Minerva and minced off-stage. Hermione saw that Ron and Harry had already settled amongst a group of particularly goggle-eyed Gryffindor girls.

Zabini, fresh from teaching his class, slipped in the back doors to the Great Hall.

"So, you and Pans coming back to my place for a few drinks?"

"Wait a bit, she's trying to chat up that rich young Slytherin," Draco said, his eyebrow raised in amusement. "I don't know how she does it. She's like a bee to honey when she spots a rich wizard."

Hermione opened her mouth to offer her opinion of Pansy, but was interrupted before she had the chance. Ron ambled over with a blonde, buxom seventh-year glued to his arm.

"Hey, Hermione, how 'bout we wait an hour or two to go to the Three Broomsticks? These lovely Gryffindors just invited us to come give a talk in their common room," Ron said.

"A talk about what?" Draco interrupted coldly.

Hermione glanced in Draco's direction, hoping he caught her gratitude.

"None of your business, Ferret."

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione exclaimed, feigning shock. "Draco is only thinking of the well-being of the students."

"You'd think you'd be a little nicer to me, given that me and Hermione are so close," Draco added. "And you still didn't answer my question."

"Um, they want us to talk about Auror stuff," Ron mumbled, face red. "You know..."

"I think not," Draco interrupted sharply. "You can give the students career advice in any of the public areas of the building, not the student common rooms."

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione cut him off before he had the chance.

"Really, Ron, don't you have any sense? It would be totally inappropriate for you to go into a student common room. Of course you can't. Discuss it with them here or ask the Headmistress's permission to go elsewhere."

Ron crossed his arms and scowled.

"You're as stuffy as ever, Hermione," Ron huffed. "Why can't you ever just let us have a lark?"

The blonde twit's eyes darted between her and Draco with pure terror, and Hermione felt a flash of pride. Ron turned on his heel - well, not really a heel, Hermione noted, as he wore filthy runners - and stormed back to Harry. Blonde Twit mousily followed him.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and sulked. Twats, the pair of them. After not seeing them for weeks, they would ditch her at the first flash of teenaged... adulation?

"Your friends are prats," Blaise interrupted her thoughts. "I thought you lot were supposed to be loyal?"

Hermione flinched.

"Such tact, Blaise." Malfoy sighed. "Come on then, let's go ."

Hermione crossed her arms. She couldn't even rant to Draco and Blaise, as they'd be off reminiscing with Pansy-Perfect-Pureblood-Parkinson. Harry and Ron would be off trying to get into some eighteen year old's knickers. And she, spinster-in-training Granger, would be off in her rooms with her cat and a book and a cup of Ovaltine. Just. Fucking. Wonderful.

"Oh, stop sulking and let's go, Granger," Draco bit out.

Blaise's eyebrow crooked, but he said nothing and simply watched his two friends.

Pansy minced over, a bored expression on her heavily-painted face. "Are we going?"

"If Granger ever decides to get off her arse."

"She's coming?" Pansy frowned with distaste. "Shouldn't she be spending the evening with our two heroes, telling them how wonderful they are for defending Britain against shoplifters?"

"She doesn't _quite _deserve an evening that horrible," Draco replied.

Pansy's delicately-plucked eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Pardon?"

"Don't you read the Prophet? Drakey and Granger are pals now." Blaise smirked, but his expression held no malice.

Pansy looked unconvinced. "I thought it was for show..."

Draco looked incredibly uncomfortable. Zabini looked pleased with himself for causing such discomfort.

"Good grief, we're not twelve anymore. Is it really that shocking that we're friendly with one another, considering that Malfoy and I are surrounded by total idiots... yourself included, _Blaise_?" Hermione snapped.

Draco cut in smoothly. "And the two of us are equally being cheated by the headmistress. Pansy, you'd be shocked at how miserly McGonagall is. My weekly salary wouldn't even buy your shoes..."

Pansy gasped and curled her hand around Draco's outstretched arm. Hermione mentally congratulated him for the quick distraction. Blaise offered Hermione his arm. She glanced once more at Harry and Ron - still surrounded by bubbleheads - and made up her mind. She followed her three old enemies out of the Great Hall.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Haven't forgotten about this, just super busy. I hope you enjoy - and if you don't, give me some pointers so I can make the next chapter even better! :) Fair warning - this chapter contains some unseemly boozing.

* * *

Hermione and Blaise knelt beside Blaise's living room coffee table, a cheap Ikea number. A half-empty twenty-sixer of Russian Prince lay on the table between them. Pansy and Draco stood off to the side, nursing their own weak vodka sodas.

"I never would've pegged Granger as a _shots _type of girl," Pansy hissed at Draco.

Blaise measured out two neat measures of liquor, slid one over to Hermione, and took one in his own hand.

"Bottoms up!" Blaise exclaimed. "I've never seen you this blitzed, Hermione!"

"I've never seen me this blitzed either - I mean you, not me. You're blitzed." She sipped delicately at the shot glass, her pinky outstretched. "We should have music... have you ever heard of a song called Daydream Believer? It's about someone named Jean. Did you know my parents wanted to call me Hermione Jean? They chose Jane, eventually..."

"Jean. I don't like that name..." Blaise replied, choosing each word slowly and carefully. "But Jane is pretty horrible, too. Actually, your name is really awful, even worse than _Blaise. _If I had a daughter, I'd call her Slytherina.."

Blaise laughed loudly and alone. Hermione concentrated intently on trying to screw the lid back on the liquor bottle. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Neither of them can hold their liquor." Pansy cringed. "They're completely drunk off the most vile, basement-brand alcohol. It's so _declasse_."

"Well, Zabini's on his low carb diet all the time, so he gets drunk quickly," Draco replied. "And Granger... she never has more than than a single glass of wine. I think that pair of Gryffindor arseholes actually upset her this time."

Pansy surveyed him with a thoughtful expression. "You like her."

He considered his response for a minute and settled on his usual strategy with Slytherins - say as little as possible without appearing rude.

"We get along decently," he said curtly.

"I'd say more than decently, if you've managed to completely forget her heritage," Pansy replied. "And I saw the way you glared at her twit friends when they insulted her. You _like _her."

"Draco, I don't want to be a teacher anymore," Hermione interrupted loudly. "I want to be a Quidditch WAG* and have lots of money and never have to arrange a Careers Day again."

"You'd best do something about your hair and your taste in liquor first, darling," Pansy said sweetly.

"Fuck you," Hermione muttered. "I don't want to date an Auror, I hate Aurors... Blaise, wake up, let's have another drink."

Zabini blinked his brown eyes sleepily and grinned at her. "Cheer up, sleepy Jean."

The two of them began singing Daydream Believer, but neither seemed to know the lyrics, and devolved into a tone-deaf hum. Draco cringed. Granger would be mortified in the morning - if she remembered.

Pansy rolled her eyes at them. "They're completely lowbrow. So... _pally_. It's quite offputting."

"Zabini and Granger _are _pals. The three of us go to the bar every week to stave off suicidal thoughts."

A smile played on Pansy's lips. "Is it _always_ a threesome, Draco?"

Pansy was his friend, but he didn't enjoy her penchant for interrogation. They had known each other from infancy, and when she was around, he felt exposed. She could cut right through his well-manicured aloofness and expose his secrets like a pro.

"As I said, Pansy, Granger and I get along well."

"Quite well, I'm sure." Pansy smirked. "I'm surprised you'd sleep with a mudblood, Draco."

"Stop it, Pansy," he snapped. "It's not like that. We. Are. Friends."

She crooked a delicately plucked eyebrow. "Now that's really interesting. That's not what your mother said."

"You've been talking with my mother." A statement, not a question.

"Your mother asked me how long it would be before you knocked up Granger." Pansy's laugh tinkled through the tiny apartment. "I told her a month, two maybe. After all, you _are_ a bit of a slut when it comes to your female friends, Draco."

"Look, I'm done talking about this," he snapped. "And don't ever try to throw me under the bus with my mother again."

He glowered at her. She easily read his expression and broke into a catlike grin.

"Okay, Draco, if you say so," she said. "Everything at Hogwarts is perfectly friendly and wonderful."

A loud tapping noise interrupted their conversation. Hermione and Blaise had begun using a chopstick and their wands to add a drum riff to their drunken singing.

"Granger," Draco called out. "Lay off it, will you? Pansy and I are trying to have a conversation. You sound like a pair of Pop Idol rejects."

She turned to him with a pathetically sad frown. "Draco, I feel sick. I drank too much. Now I remember why I hate drinking."

"You're a pussy, Gryffindor. Slytherin triumphs as always!" Blaise declared before passing out face-first on the coffee table.

Hermione patted his dark hair and muttered something about _revisionist history_. Pansy and Draco surveyed the two drunks disdainfully.

"Should we get the medi-witch?" Pansy asked. "If she vomits near me, I'll hex her. I don't care how much you like her."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I can't believe you want to be a mother. I'll bring Granger back to her room and give her a potion."

"So you know Granger's password."

"To her _sitting room_. Shite, Pansy, we're friends. Not friends who shag. The thought of it's never crossed my mind. Not all of us live for slutting about and getting rich quickly."

Instead of responding to his barb, she gave him a knowing smile and finished the last of her drink. "Yes, take your friend home, Draco. I'll look after Zabini."

Zabini's apartments were only thirty seconds' walk from Hermione's. It should have been an easy task - levitate her, float her the two hundred feet down the hallway, open the portrait hole, drop her on the sofa, then leave.

But, as seemed to happen so very frequently, Weasley fucked it all up.

Draco heard the moron before he saw the moron. As he levitated Granger down the corridor, a high-pitched keening noise, like a crying dachshund, filled the air. As Draco came closer to Hermione's door, he realized that the keening noise was actually words.

"Hermiiiionnnneeeeeeeee..."

Draco parked Granger in the air and peeked around the corner. Weasley, his face ruddy and eyes glassy, stood three feet in front of Granger's portrait hole.

"Hermiiionnnneeee, let meeee innnn," he wailed. "I'll wait all night out here. I know you're just in there with your Ovaltine and your kneazle. You'll have to come out some time!"

_Fuck_. The last thing Draco wanted to do was confront Weasley. But what to do with Granger? He couldn't very well leave her here, drunk as a skunk, in the middle of corridor on a school night. Especially with Weasley prowling about, hoping for God knows what.

Draco shuddered. The only reasonable option seemed... well, to take her to his own rooms.

He'd never invited a muggleborn into his home before. Not Malfoy Manor. Not his room at Hogwarts. It was a strange, foreign thought - not that a muggleborn would sleep in his home, but that his friends, his beliefs, had done a 180 degree shift without him even realizing it.

His ruminations were interrupted by Weasley's noisy voice.

"Hermionnneee, you're being horribly unfair, I know you can hear me..."

Granger, fast asleep and suspended mid-air, heard nothing.

_You owe me one, big time, Granger_, Draco thought tiredly.

By the time he'd turned her around, levitated her through the more obscure hallways and staircases to avoid being seen by students, and brought her to _his_ apartment, Draco was completely knackered.

He supposed the gentlemanly thing to do was to give her the bed. After all, Hermione was - technically, at least - a girl. He sailed her through to his bedroom door, wincing as he grazed her head against the heavy wooden door-frame. She didn't even stir. He released the charm and dropped her onto his bed with a heavy _thud.  
_

Her hair splayed messily over his black cotton pillowcase. Pink heat suffused her cheeks. Her loose white blouse had fallen open, revealing a sliver of white, flat stomach. Her chest rose and fell with each deep, rhythmic breath.

Definitely, positively a girl.

Draco backed away from the bed. He felt queasy; thoughts like _that _about _Granger_ were completely, utterly wrong.

_It's just the vodka sodas. It's just the fact you haven't had a shag in months. It's just the fact she's lying on your bed. It's nothing more than animal instinct_.

The thoughts didn't reassure him. He backed out and slammed the bedroom door shut. Once safely in his sitting room, separated from her by a heavy oak door, he flopped down on his leather chaise longue.

Despite his exhaustion, he lay awake for several hours before falling into a fitful sleep.

* * *

WAG: A British-ism for "Wives and Girlfriends." Generally refers to the tacky wives and girlfriends of rich soccer stars, young ladies who don't do much except spend money on vulgar designer clothes. Examples include Victoria Beckham, Coleen McLoughlin Rooney.


	10. Chapter 10

Draco's head crackled with pain at the knocking sound. After a moment, he realized it wasn't a dream, but the front door. He blinked - he'd kicked off his shoes and peeled off his outer-robe in the middle of the night, but other than that, was still fully clothed. His back ached - what had possessed him to be chivalrous and give up his own bed? Why hadn't he just been a total arse to Granger, as she deserved?

The pounding continued. He rolled off the chaise, staggered over, and swung the door open.

Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber stood on the doorstep. Pansy stood behind them, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Malfoy!" Ron exclaimed. "Where's Hermione?"

"I already told you she's here," Pansy spoke up. "I told you thirty seconds ago. Do you have the memory of a goldfish, Weasley? I mean, you even checked on that childish little map of Potter's. You clearly saw that she's in Draco's room."

"Let us in to see her! What have you done to her?" Weasley took a step forward, as if trying to intimidate Draco.

"What I've done with her is none of your business," Draco replied tiredly.

_Fuck off, _he wanted to tell them, but for the sake of civility with Hermione, he didn't.

"Now, Draco, surely you didn't do anything rash after our conversation about shagging Mudbloods..." Pansy spoke up.

Draco cringed inwardly - Pansy was never one to pass up an opportunity to bait her enemies and she looked positively joyful at Ron Weasley's enraged expression. That was rich - Weasley's indignation about Granger's honour when he was positively the biggest whore in the Auror office.

"You better not have done anything to her..." Ron exclaimed. "Or I'll..."

"You'll what? You were so distracted by the possibility of getting a shag last night that _you _blew Hermione off."

"Wait, what?" Potter finally spoke up. "What did you say to her, Ron? I thought you said she had raging PMS and stormed off."

Pansy giggled. "Not quite. Seems she wasn't too pleased at being told to wait around while Weasel tried to get into some underage Gryffindor knickers."

"Oh, Ron," Harry groaned. "Do you ever think with your other head? Shite. I told you to tell her to wait an hour so Ginny could join us. It wasn't meant to be an opportunity for you to find a date."

"Draco?" Hermione's plaintive voice trickled through the doorway.

He found himself inexplicably drawn to her, and inexplicably eager to get away from the pointless bickering between Pansy and Granger's two pals. Both Ron and Harry reddened at the sound of their friend's sleepy voice calling out his name.

For some reason, he didn't relish their anger.

"Good-bye, Potter, Weasley," he said. "Pansy, I'll stop by your guest suite later and we'll get lunch."

"I'll be ready and waiting." Pansy looked pointedly at Ron. "I'm dying to hear about your night after you carried Granger off."

Ron spluttered again, but Draco simply shut the door.

"I'm going to wait until you leave, Malfoy!" Ron shouted as the door clicked shut.

* * *

Hermione yawned and blinked. She could hear muffled voices through a closed doorway - Ron, Harry, Draco, Pansy...

Pansy. Shite. Her last clear memory was of sitting in Blaise's sitting room next to Pansy Parkinson and Draco, and gulping back an offensively strong vodka soda. After that, her memories were a blur - she vaguely remembered drinking shots and drumming on a table with her wand, but other than that, everything seemed so fuzzy...

And that was when she realized she was _definitely_ not in her own room. It was far too dark; it smelled like cedar; and the sheets were soft and silky. Her heartbeat quickened. She flipped her wand out from her waistband.

"Lumos!"

She inspected her surroundings. She lay on a double bed with brown satin sheets; the walls were heavy stone blocks; on a night stand next to the bed lay a copy of _Potions Monthly_ and a booklet entitled_ Member's Newsletter: Conservative Party of Wizarding Britain. _

Malfoy. What was she doing in Malfoy's room? _In Draco Malfoy's bed_?

Oh, God. She'd never do something that foolish. She would never, could never think of Malfoy that way... could she? Had vodka washed away all of her common sense? Was she now - Christ, how embarrassing - Draco Malfoy's latest one night stand?

It was at that point the door squeaked open, flooding the room with light.

"I thought I heard you moving around."

"Ah... Draco..." She stumbled over her words. "What happened - that is - I mean, I'm in your bed..."

"We shagged like mad rabbits. Surely you remember the throes of passion, Granger? You told me I was the best you ever had. In fact, the best lay in Britain, if not the world."

Her initial shock melted into irritation. "Oh, do shut up, Malfoy. I had to _ask_. You, after all, are prone to shagging anything you can get your hands on."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I think it would take a lot more than alcohol to get us to that point, hmm?" He sighed, and a worried frown flitted across his delicate features.

"You're certain _nothing _happened?" Hermione asked. "You look rather worried."

He glared. "Of course I'm sure. I'm the one who only had two drinks, remember? May I point out that both of us are fully clothed?"

"That doesn't explain why I'm in your bed."

"Because you got drank a half-bottle of vodka, passed out, and I couldn't take you back to your own rooms because Weasley was outside your door caterwauling like a dying ginger tom."

"Oh." She swallowed, feeling her face redden.

"Besides, if you and me had shagged, I would've tossed you out." He examined himself briefly in a nearby mirror. "I never let the girls stay overnight. They might get... ideas. Romance. Weddings. Gold-digging. That sort of thing."

"Ugh, Malfoy. You're such a pig."

Her stomach let out a noisy growl and she groaned, feeling a sudden wave of nausea. Draco rolled his eyes and opened up a nearby dresser. Over his shoulder, Hermione could see a phial of hangover cure, a spare toothbrush, and a bubbly pink bottle she immediately recognized as contraceptive. Her face warmed, and she felt a flicker of annoyance at his one-night-stand supplies.

"Here." He tossed the hangover cure her way. "Don't vomit on my bedsheets. They're Egyptian cotton, and neither of us can afford to replace them."

"That's what I like about you, Draco, you're so kind."

He crooked an eyebrow. "You have no clue how you behaved last night, do you?"

She looked down at her own lap and when she spoke, her voice sounded small. "Go on. I know you're _dying _to embarrass me."

"You tried to start a fistfight with Pansy and you told us Weasley had a small prick," Draco lied.

"Well, I haven't got much sympathy for Pansy. She probably deserved it... but oh no, I can't believe that I said that about Ron. You better not make fun of him for it. I'm never drinking again..."

"Christ, calm down, Granger, I'm just taking the piss. You didn't start a fistfight or say anything about Weasley's manhood. Though I'll file small-dick Weasley aside for later." He leaned against the wall and watched her as he spoke. "You weren't that bad. You had a shots drinking competition with Blaise, attempted to sing some second rate Muggle pop music, swore excessively, and told me you wanted to become a Quidditch WAG. Oh, and you said you hated Aurors, as well - understandable, I suppose, given your history with small dick Weasley..."

"Oh, piss off." She threw a pillow at him, but he caught it.

"Temper, Granger." He gestured to a door in the corner. "I'm going to shower. You might want to answer the door. Weasley said he'd be waiting there until you came out, and I don't really want to talk to him on my way to breakfast."

With that, he stalked out.

* * *

Malfoy, unsurprisingly, had mirrors in both his bedroom _and_ has sitting room. On her way to the front door, Hermione happened to glance at her reflection in one of them - and realized she looked utterly disheveled. Her hair stuck out in every direction. Smeared mascara ringed her eyes. Wrinkles marred her cotton dress.

Ron would take it as concrete proof that she'd slept with Malfoy.

Her wand neatly ironed out the creases and removed all traces of mascara, but the hair - as always - resisted. Twenty minutes and ten spells later, it still looked like a brown pom-pon. In frustration, she finally took to smoothing it down with her hands.

It was at that moment that Draco's bathroom door swung open and he walked out.

Shirtless.

A towel wrapped around his waist.

Water dripping over his flat, pale stomach.

_Who knew he was hiding that under his robes? _

Hermione gasped. Draco jumped.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?" he squawked.

"I... erm..." Her face burned. "I was trying to fix my hair before I went out."

He stared at her a moment. His mouth twisted into a smirk.

"Granger, that could take _hours_." He gestured to the door. "It's also a rather convenient excuse to spend half the day in front of my mirror rather than dealing with your little boyfriend. I don't care if you look like you've been attacked by a flock of seagulls, get rid of Weasley _now _before he _really _begins to irritate me."

"I need to get rid of him _right now_? Okay, Draco."

She shrugged, and swung the door open.

"Granger, give me some warning!" he hissed as he fled into his bedroom.

_Serves you right, arsehole, for being such a demanding prick... and for making fun of my hair_.

It was only _after_ she opened the door that she realized putting a half-naked Malfoy on display would probably incense Ron even further.

As it turned out, Ron was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Harry stood at the open door, watching Malfoy's retreating backside with a tightly-controlled expression.

"Ron left." His voice sounded clipped. "Which, I suppose, is for the best, considering Malfoy's current state."

"Ah..." Hermione replied awkwardly. "It's not what it looks like. Malfoy was just having a shower, and walked out while I was in his sitting room..."

"How coincidental," Harry muttered. "And after giving you liquor and bringing you to his bedroom. Be careful around him, Hermione."

"Oh, good grief. We're just friends." She smiled, but her traitorous mind kept thinking back to earlier in the morning, when she'd seriously worried that she'd slept with Malfoy; when she'd seen his smooth, water-slicked body step out of the shower.

Harry touched her arm. "Make sure it stays that way."

"Harry, don't be silly. Ron and I... we're meant to be together. It's always been that way, right? And you know I could never think of Malfoy in... that way."

_I could never think of Malfoy that way_, she told herself mentally. _Never_.

Harry scrutinized her face as they walked toward her apartment. "We haven't spent enough time together lately, Hermione. Let's go for breakfast together in Hogsmeade."

She nodded and tried to focus on Harry's conversation. But try as she might, her mind's eye kept returning to Draco's slender figure, wrapped in a towel, his thin lips smirking at her.

But most worrying was that, when she tried to replace Malfoy's slender figure with images of Ron, her mind steadfastly refused to comply.

* * *

AN: Sorry for the delay, I'm a victim of the infamous Type 2 Error and it took me a week to find the workaround. I hope, however, that I haven't lost you all with the delay! I've got a few future chapters written, but I let them sit for a few weeks before proofreading/editing, so expect new chapters very soon...


	11. Chapter 11

_"Dear Hermione,_

_"How are u? It seems like we haven't seen each other in ages, and I've missed our late-night chats so much! I'm off this Tuesday and Wednesday. Are u free to meet up for a drink_? _I haven't been out for a girlie night in AGES!_

_"See u soon, XO! Ginny,_" Malfoy read out in a saccharine voice. "I like the _u _instead of _y-o-u_. And the hearts to dot her i's. Cute."

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy." Hermione snatched the note back and stuffed it in her robe pocket.

"You know, Draco, it's terribly rude to read others' mail," Blaise piped up. "It sounds like you'll have a lovely time with Ginny tonight, Hermione."

Hermione poked at her beef pie and shrugged. With typical Weasley unsubtlety, Ginny's letter had arrived exactly one day after Ron had found Hermione in Malfoy's bedroom. Hermione knew how it had played out - Ron would've written to Ginny, guilt tripping her with comments like _Don't you want me to be happy? Don't you want Hermione to be part of this family? Do you want to see Hermione shackled forever to horrible, abusive racist scum-bag Malfoy? Because if you don't help me get Hermione back, it'll be your fault!_

"Stop trying to kiss her arse so she'll cover your rounds on Friday, Zabini..." Malfoy muttered at Blaise, but Malfoy's tone lacked its usual vitriol.

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy's untouched pie and salad.

"Malfoy, you're not eating. Are you ill?"

She wondered if she could convince the house-elves to make him up some ginger tea and chicken soup; the elves generally had little patience for Malfoy, whom they rightly viewed as an arrogant, demanding brat.

"I'm fine. I'm just going out tonight," Malfoy replied.

Usually, when Malfoy had plans, he'd prattle on, and on, and on, name-dropping how he and Pansy had reservations at _the _trendiest martini bar in London, or how the _only_ way to eat sushi was getting a portkey to Tokyo, or how he and Goyle _always _went to Sickeningly Exclusive French Restaurant when they had a craving for foie gras.

Today Malfoy's lips were locked up tighter than a Scottish troll's wallet.

Hermione felt her stomach flip. Was Malfoy going out with a witch? On a _date_? Without even telling her and Blaise?

Blaise sighed deeply. "Well just call me an old spinster. I guess I'm the only one dateless for the evening."

"Being harangued by Ginny for three hours on why I should marry Ron Weasley is hardly what I'd call _a date_," Hermione mumbled, but her eyes remained locked on Malfoy, searching for any hint of his plans.

Suddenly feeling queasy, she dropped her cutlery and tossed her napkin down on the table.

"I should go get ready," she said. "If you're awake when I get back, I'll stop by... Blaise."

She waited to see if Malfoy would volunteer his expected return time - he did not. After a moment, she stood and hurried out the doors.

"She seemed unhappy," Blaise said. "You didn't say anything particularly offensive again, did you?"

Malfoy didn't answer. His gray eyes stared blankly out into the sea of children.

"Uh, Draco?" Blaise asked.

"Huh... pardon?" Draco asked. "I was a bit distracted."

"I was saying that Hermione seemed unhappy," Blaise repeated.

"Did she? I didn't notice." Malfoy shrugged. "I've got to go. Can I borrow some of your cologne? I want something unsubtle."

"Yeah, I guess," Blaise replied. "I changed the password to 'Alexis Carrington'. The bottle's in my night stand, second drawer, right next to my special magazines."

"Thanks."

Malfoy rushed out as quickly as Hermione had. Blaise, his brow furrowed in concentration, watched Malfoy's slender figure hurry out.

"Two of a kind," he muttered to nobody in particular.

* * *

"Didn't I tell you this bar was _amaaaazing_, Hermione? My teammate Georgiana is part owner, that's how I always get in ahead of the line." Ginny's voice was a hint louder than normal, and a rosy blush coloured her pale cheeks. "It has _amaaazing_ cran-tinis. The cranberry is good for your liver so it balances out the vodka."

"I'm sure." Hermione idly stirred a peppermint stick around her chocolatey, sickly-sweet cocktail.

The bar was incredibly trendy and modern, exactly the sort of place Hermione felt uncomfortable. Blue glass and chrome mirror covered the enormous bar, the walls, and the intimate corner dining tables. Pouty-lipped waiters and waitresses hovered around in tight, low-cut robes. The menu contained mysterious words like _yuzu _and _baccala. _

"So, Hermiiiioneee." Ginny's face grew serious. "We've talked about your research, my quidditch statistics, Harry's athlete's foot..."

"Let's not revisit the athlete's foot discussion, Gin."

"Right. But what we haven't talked about is the most important topic." Ginny cocked her head and smiled brightly. "You and my brother."

"What do you mean _me _and _your brother_?"

"Well, you and he are meant for each other. He's always known you'd be the one for him. Everyone's always known it would be you with Ronnie and me with Harry. The two perfect hero couples. And you and I would be sisters!"

Hermione felt a shiver run through her. Perfect? Ron? Yet, she had told Harry the same thing not a week ago - _Ron and I, we're meant to be together. _Coming from Ginny's mouth, it seemed less convincing.

"And really, it wasn't very nice of you to just ditch Ron for Malfoy," Ginny added.

"Ditch him for Malfoy! I did nothing of the sort!" Hermione snapped. "Your brother was off pickling his liver and attempting to catch every STD in Britain."

"That's a bit harsh, Hermione." Ginny's face grew even redder. "I didn't mean to insult you..."

"I beg to differ. I bet Ron even told you what to say before he came out here, didn't he? Ginny, I'll have you know that while your brother was slutting it up, Malfoy was being very good friend to me and giving me moral support. And you can just go right back to the Burrow and tell that to _Ronnie_."

Ginny's mouth twisted into a strangely intent expression. She polished off her half-finished martini in one gulp and gestured to the nearest waiter for another.

"Merlin's tits, Hermione, you really _do_ like Malfoy." She shook her head. "Bizarre. I thought - no offense - you'd just revenge shagged him to piss off Ron."

Hermione now felt her own face warming, and avoided Ginny's inquisitive gaze by staring into her cocktail.

"So, what was it like?"

"What was _what_ like, Ginny?"

"Oh, c'mon! Shagging Malfoy! Is he good in bed?"

"Ginny, I haven't... that is, it's none of your business..."

Ginny groaned and took a swig of the new martini. "Aww, Hermione, that's just like you. You're not even sleeping with him. Boo. Here I thought I could live vicariously through your newly exciting romantic life."

Hermione froze. "Wait, pardon me? Five minutes ago you were trying to convince me to get back with Ron, and now you're telling me to have a fling with Malfoy?"

"Ron offered to pay me ten galleons if I tried to change your mind. I've tried and failed, so I still get my money. And to be honest, Malfoy's a lot more of a hot, evil, naughty kind of guy. A lot more exciting."

Hermione scowled. "You wouldn't say that if you had to listen to him prattle on about his favourite potions recipes for hours at a time. Or pout when the house-elves run out of rice pudding. Or watch him try to stack up pint glasses into castles when he gets half-snockered."

Ginny's lips twisted in amusement. "You sure know his quirks... speak of the devil."

Hermione had to take a swig of her drink to keep from swearing. Malfoy had walked into the bar with a twiglet-thin, petite blonde, her body caged by a tightly-boned, expensive-looking robe. Hermione felt her teeth clench as Malfoy gripped the girl's elbow and guided her toward a shadowy table in the back.

"Is Malfoy stepping out on you? Do you want to go beat that girl up?" Ginny asked loudly. "I've got a really pointy sovereign ring... or maybe we can hex her, I know a great one for dissolving any glamours."

"Ginny, shh... don't be silly." Hermione couldn't take her eyes off Malfoy. He leaned in and murmured something to Twiglet Girl; she smiled demurely. He had no clue that Hermione was only a few metres away.

"Aren't you jealous?"

Hermione thought quickly. Malfoy _should've_ told her if he was dating someone - at least she could have saved face and told everyone she and Malfoy had mutually broken up - instead, she now looked like the pathetic, perennially-wronged spinster. Especially when Malfoy's new gal pal looked like a Maxim cover girl.

"Me and Malfoy aren't _exclusive_, Ginny," she heard herself blurt out. "We're both free to see other people. We're young, and the relationship is new. We're trying not to take it too seriously."

_Fuck_, she mentally swore. _I should've just told her the truth - but then she would've gone straight back to tell Ron-the-drunk-slut, and he'd would be back on my doorstep tomorrow with a petrol station bouquet and a pack of rubbers. _

Ginny whistled. "That's unexpected, coming from you. I always thought you were a real commitment-marriage-sprogs kind of a girl. Wow, good for you, Hermione, for just deciding to enjoy life. I've really only ever been with Harry... I'm kind of jealous of your spontaneity, actually."

Hermione's worry dissolved; she smirked inwardly. She liked this - liked being impulsive Hermione who didn't care about convention. A Hermione that _Ginny _envied, not the other way around. Not Hermione who nagged and planned ahead and made the practical choice. Not Ron Weasley's frumpy ball and chain.

"So, if you're not sleeping with Malfoy," Ginny asked, "Then why did Ron tell me he'd found you guys in bed together?"

Hermione snorted. "The boys got me so angry that I stormed off with Malfoy, Blaise and Pansy. I drank a bit too much and Malfoy took me back to his place to sleep it off. Ron found _me_ in Malfoy's bed, but I assure you, Malfoy spent the night in the living room. If Ron had taken two seconds to look, he would've realized we were both fully clothed."

"Draco Malfoy voluntarily brought you, a muggleborn, home - and voluntarily gave you his bed?"

Hermione shrugged. Her eyes flickered toward him once again, laughing and chatting in the corner with that perfect, perky blonde. Hermione's stomach flipped, and she suddenly felt horribly unattractive. She no longer wanted to sit here and chat with Ginny; she just wanted to go home, feel sorry for herself, and sleep in until noon.

Ginny finished off yet another martini. "What could Harry and Ron have done to piss you off so much that you went drinking with a bitch like Pansy?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The twits. You know how boys are. After the two of them finished their careers talk, we were supposed to go to the bar, but the two of them started flirting with a few of the sluttier seventh years..."

She realized her mistake when Ginny's eyes narrowed and her teeth gritted together. Ginny jumped up from the stool and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Harry was _flirting_ with the girls at the school?"

"It was really more Ron..." Hermione tried vainly to backtrack.

"How dare he!" Ginny's voice carried through the entire restaurant, and Hermione could feel stares from every table. "Does he think that just because he's Harry-Bloody-Potter that he can do whatever he pleases? He better have a damned good explanation."

Hermione cringed and covered her face with her hand as Ginny stomped out. When Hermione finally recovered enough composure to look up, she discovered Draco and Twiglet Girl now standing next to her bar stool.

Fuck, could this evening get any worse?. To be introduced to _Malfoy_'s new girlfriend was the absolutely last thing on her to-do list.

"Granger, why didn't you come over and say hello? Too good for my company?" Malfoy asked, the twinkle in his eyes the only thing betraying his amusement. "I didn't even see you 'til Weaselette had her noisy public tantrum."

Hermione forced cheer into her voice. "I don't think I've been introduced to your friend."

"Granger, lay off the fake sweetness. You're a horrible actress." Malfoy gestured to the blonde with one hand. "This is Madam Harrietta. She's the most exclusive matchmaker in Britain."

A matchmaker. _Madam _Harrietta - a _married_ matchmaker. Hermione felt a flood of relief wash over her. Malfoy _wasn't _seeing some perfect, pretty witch.

Madam Harrietta looked Hermione up and down. "Pureblood matchmaker, that is."

A hint of a frown crossed Malfoy's lips. Hermione felt a flush of affection toward him. She suppressed the urge to hug him - because that tiny, fleeting expression of disapproval confirmed what she already suspected - Malfoy no longer believed in pureblood supremacy.

"Would you like to join us, _Hermione_, until my father arrives to discuss my need for a wife? We could split a schooner of beer," Malfoy asked.

"Beer?" Madam Harrietta asked, her voice laced with disapproval.

"Yes," Malfoy replied, feigning seriousness. "I really enjoy price-conscious lager. Stella Artois - have you heard of it? It's a Muggle beer nicknamed _wife beater_."

Madam Harrietta made a clucking noise, pulled out a notebook and scribbled something down. Hermione pressed her glass to her lips to keep from laughing. In reality, Malfoy wouldn't be caught dead drinking _muggle beer_, but he had evidently decided to entertain himself by aggravating the uptight matchmaker.

"As much as I adore your father, _Draco_, I think I'll let you have some quality time alone with him. We wouldn't want a repeat of the last time we went drinking together, hmm, Sweet Pea?"

Malfoy laughed - genuinely, not his usual dismissive snort. "Yes, we do have a way of getting into seemingly scandalous situations."

Madam Harrietta looked between the two of them with an offended expression. And Hermione, who'd had quite enough of socializing for the night, left for her rooms at Hogwarts, her cat, and a hot drink.

* * *

The howler arrived at the staff room bright and early, and in the presence of nearly every other teacher - including Blaise and Malfoy. In typical Harry style, there was no shouting, no smoke or any other signs of rage, just a terse, clipped message.

"Hermione, my girlfriend has now shouted at me for five straight hours, and I just want to assure you - I'll get you back for this."

* * *

**AN**: Currently working on the next chapter, but I have awful writer's block.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco stood in the doorway of her flat, waiting for her to come out of the lav. He knew, after more than three months, that they could call the whole fake-romance thing off now; that there really wasn't much reason to keep it up.

He also knew that he wasn't about to suggest it.

After years of muggle hatred, he couldn't just come right out and admit that he really liked a muggleborn; considered her, in fact, a close friend. Could spend a whole evening in her flat, taking the piss, drinking wine, and staggering drunkenly back to his own rooms at two in the morning. He didn't want her, without the excuse of their fake friendship, to vanish; to choose to spend her time with Weasel or Potter or some handsome-but-intellectually-inferior wizard.

"Hurry up, Granger. I don't even care if your hair looks like a tumbleweed, as long as we get there on time."

"It's not that!" she shouted, "It's this damned zip. I can't even aim my wand properly to get it up. I'll need to get a wire hanger to get it..."

"Oh, good grief, just let me do it. We're fifteen minutes late as it is. Blaise is going to think we got into another argument."

"But..." Her voice sounded strangled.

"What, Granger? It's just a zip."

"You'll see my brassiere!" she wailed.

He swallowed. He definitely, positively didn't mind seeing Granger's lingerie.

"Granger, don't make this into a _thing_. It's just a couple of straps. I've seen them on plenty of women, including yourself when you've worn particularly ill-fitting tank tops."

"Can't you get Blaise? At least I know he won't gawk like some old letch."

He sighed. "Granger, I promise I won't gawk. Just come out, I'll do up the dress, and in ten minutes, you'll be at the ceremony, getting pawed at by Weasley and whined at by Potter."

"Oh, be quiet." She sighed deeply from the depths of the lavatory. "All right, I give up. But honestly, you can't gawk or laugh, all right?"

The door opened with a slow, noisy squeak. The curls appeared first, followed shortly by Hermione's face, and her -

He froze. She wore a skin-tight satin gown that hugged her flared hips and showed every inch of her ivory shoulders. Her slim arms crossed over her full chest protectively, and her eyes looked at the floor in embarrassment.

"I told you you'd gawk," she huffed. "Is it too tight? I knew I shouldn't have gotten something sleeveless..."

"You look good," he muttered.

Her expression softened. Her lips curled upwards, and he fought the urge to run his fingers over her shoulder. And yet, he couldn't say he was shocked by Granger's transformation; he'd seen hints of her beauty, here and there, for the past three months. The way her neck craned over a book. The way the sunlight caught her brown eyes, shading them a deep, clear brandy hue. The way her muggle clothes clung to her waist and hips.

"Here, turn around." He knew his voice sounded huskier than normal, and he tried to school his voice into its usual sourness. "Speed it up, Granger, the sooner I start flirting with the young witches at this thing, the better."

She didn't scowl, just let out a tinkly laugh and turned around. The unzipped dress revealed a sliver of perfectly white back and - god help him - the fastenings and straps of a lace-trimmed white brassiere. He fought the nearly overwhelming urge to run his fingers over it and instead, reached for the zip. His fingers were cold against her hot skin as he pulled the zipper up to the top, fully encasing her in red satin.

He didn't draw back. His hands rested at the top of the dress, his fingers just barely skimming her warm, exposed skin and the cascade of curly hair at the nape of her neck. He could smell her strawberry shampoo. He could see her breathing shorten. She didn't move, didn't pull away, and a thrum of excited, triumphant want arced through his body.

The moment, that tense thread between them, snapped when the door burst open. Both he and Hermione jumped away from one another as Blaise bounced in.

"What's wrong? You two are nearly half an hour late! The dedication ceremony's already started."

"I, uh, was having some trouble with my outfit..." Hermione said.

Simultaneously, Draco muttered, "She's always slow, you know that. I was just waiting around here..."

Blaise's eyes narrowed. Neither Hermione nor Draco would meet each other's eyes.

"You two weren't arguing again, were you?"

"No we were not," Draco said with finality. "Let's go. Now."

* * *

The dedication of the new Astronomy Tower was a boring, lengthy event. Hermione sat at the front of the room, next to Ron and Harry and a couple of the Weasleys, as one of the "honoured guests." She listened while McGonagall and a host of Ministry bureaucrats made maudlin speeches about the war. Several children nodded off.

It was, in short, painful. She expected the reception would be no different.

It turned out she was right. After the speeches, the house-elves set up a sad looking buffet table and rearranged the chairs in the Great Hall. The hors d'ouvres consisted of soggy cucumber sandwiches and green-hued devilled eggs. The drinks were limited to lukewarm butterbeer or weak tea. And Hermione kept getting pressed into conversation with a bespectacled, obese actuary from the Ministry.

"It's actually fascinating work, analyzing risk post-war. I mean, what sort of risks are we looking at when indemnifying a high visibility target like the Astronomy Tower? And it's not just that, it's also even more common things. Just last week I did a lengthy analysis on whether the Ministry's moss farming subsidies were as beneficial as..."

Hermione tuned out. From the corner of her eye, she could see Draco and Blaise standing against a nearby wall, snickering at her misfortune.

Harry, unlike her two Slytherin compatriates, came to the rescue. He sidled up and put an arm around her.

"Hermione, why don't you come and join me and Ron. We're just chatting with Professor Slughorn..."

"Oh! Harry Potter, what an honour... your friend Hermione here is such an intriguing young woman." Obese Bureaucrat wiped his nose with a stained handkerchief.

"She certainly is," Harry replied, eyeing her with amusement.

"You two aren't - _you know_," Obese Bureaucrat gestured to the friendly arm around Hermione's shoulders.

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "No! I'm happily taken, thank you very much."

"Great," Obese Bureaucrat replied. "So, Hermione, you're not seeing anyone..."

She tried to avoid cringing. This dull, fusty, Ministry bureaucrat was trying to _ask her out_. When she glanced into Harry's eyes, there was a mischievous twinkle reflected in them.

"Haven't you read the papers?" Harry grinned. "Hermione's in a romance with Draco Malfoy."

Obese Bureaucrat's lips twisted into a disgusted grimace. "I thought that was just rumours... I mean, he's a dark wizard..."

"Ex-dark-wizard," Harry replied sweetly. "And you better be careful what you say about him in front of Hermione. She's quite protective of her man, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Harry," she hissed.

He winked at her and gestured for Malfoy to come over. Draco looked suspicious, but he joined them.

"Yes, Potter?" Draco asked coldly.

"Our actuary friend from the Ministry here was just expressing his _interest _in Hermione."

"Oh, really." Draco's eyes narrowed at Obese Bureaucrat.

"He didn't quite believe that you and Hermione could be a couple, although I tried my hardest to convince him." Harry smirked. "Why don't you show him how happy you two are?"

"Show him?" Hermione's brow knit.

"Yes. You two really aren't very demonstrative. People will start thinking that maybe your relationship isn't all it's claimed to be, hmm?"

_What are you doing?_ Hermione mouthed at Harry.

_I told you I'd get you back_, Harry mouthed back before turning to Draco.

"Why don't you give each other a little kiss?" Harry said.

"A kiss?" Draco's voice sounded strangled. "I don't think Hermione would enjoy being put on display like that."

Hermione, however, didn't find the prospect unpleasant. Her eyes lingered on Malfoy's thin lips, the pale, angular jaw, and the stormy grey eyes. What would he taste like? Would he taste like he smelled, like spruce needles and soap? Or like the rich, black coffee he drank during lunch?

"You know, you seem rather hesitant, Malfoy. Haven't you supposedly been dating for three months?" Ron's mocking voice startled Hermione out of her reverie. "Hermione never had problems giving _me_ a kiss in public. I'm starting to wonder if this is just a cover. You and Zabini are rather close now, aren't you? Flying the old rainbow flag, Malfoy?"

Hermione could see the shift in Malfoy's eyes at Ron's goading. Had Ron said nothing, Malfoy would have made polite excuses and retreated; now she could see the resolute expression take hold. He was going to do it.

He was going to kiss her.

He stepped forward. Her heartbeat sped up. Her breathing quickened. _Oh God, Draco Malfoy is going to kiss me_.

His hands gripped her waist and pulled her closer; she saw him pause, waiting for her to shove him or pull away. She didn't.

And then he leaned in, and his lips were on hers, tentatively, gently. His body was warmer than she expected, and she instinctively let out a sigh of pleasure. He took that as encouragement and deepened the kiss, pressing hard against her lips. Her arms slid around his neck to bring him tighter. Her lips parted, and his tongue pressed into her mouth. His hands tightened around her hips and yanked her closer. A hard bulge butted her abdomen.

"Hermione!" Harry's hiss broke through the dream.

She and Malfoy jumped apart as if burned.

Harry and Ron stared in shock at her and Malfoy. Both she and Malfoy muttered excuses and fled through opposite doors.

* * *

Her ears rang and her mind swirled with emotion. Her high heels clacked resolutely against the marble floor as she headed away from the Great Hall; to where, she hadn't quite decided.

"What the hell was that?"

Hermione jumped at the sudden shout and spun around in the empty corridor. "Harry, don't scare me like that."

"Hermione, what's going on between you and Malfoy?" he demanded. "The truth."

"Nothing, I told you. It's a fake relationship..."

He narrowed his green eyes at her. "_That _was not the kind of kiss someone gives a co-worker, or a stranger, or even a friend, Hermione. At most, I expected a peck on the lips, not a full-on public snogging session."

She leaned against the stone wall. "I... I just got caught up in the moment."

He frowned. "How many times have you gotten caught up in the moment before?"

Her voice rushed out nervously. "Never! Honestly, I've never kissed Malfoy before, not that it's really any of your business. We're friends. Okay, so I admit, he's not bad looking..."

"Oh, please don't tell me you're romantically interested in him, Hermione. You know what he's like. You of all people know what he's like."

"I know, Harry. Really." She ran her hand through her hair. "I'll admit it, I find him physically attractive. But his goals in life and mine are polar opposites. You know I'm... I'm a practical person."

He slung his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I know I'm overreacting a bit. I just worry about you - he's hurt you before and I don't doubt he'd hurt you again. You're like my sister... but I know you can take care of yourself, and you can handle Malfoy better than any of us. Right?"

She nodded slowly, but couldn't form the words to reply. Draco's taste still clung to her mouth, and her body thrummed with unresolved sexual energy.

She muttered excuses about being exhausted, and retreated to her room to distract herself with a book and a cup of tea.

* * *

Draco examined himself in the lavatory mirror. His lips were red and swollen. His cheeks were pink. His eyes refused to focus. And his mind's eye kept replaying Granger's soft, slender body in his arms, her whisper-small sigh of pleasure, her tiny tongue playing with his as his mouth pressed against hers...

"Fuck," he swore at nobody in particular.

He caught a flicker of movement in the mirror. Blaise's dark hair appeared behind him.

"You seemed to enjoy that."

"Fuck off, Zabini."

"Are you trying to make her your next conquest, Draco?" he asked. "Another notch in the belt?"

"No!"

Blaise stared him down.

"Christ, Zabini, do you really think I'd do that?" He rubbed his hand over his chin. "She just looked... well..."

"Fuckable?"

"I was going to say beautiful, but six of one, half dozen of the other." He sighed. "It's been a while since I've gotten any action. She's incredibly fuckable, at times... I mean, she's got a great body... dresses pretty well... she laughs at my jokes, she lends me books, and we go drinking together, you know?"

"Oh, I think I do..." Blaise murmured, watching his friend intently.

"She's going to kill me later. She knows that Weasley goaded me into it - I really shouldn't have let that immature arse get to me." Draco sighed. "Fuck, what am I going to do to get back in her good books?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Just go back to your flat and let me have a word with her. I think she knows you didn't mean any harm."

Draco looked unconvinced.

"Or you could stay in the boys' lav all night, staring at yourself in the mirror and having self-involved discussions with yourself." Blaise rolled his eyes. "Really, Draco. For someone who's had so much experience with women, you're acting like an angst-ridden third year."

"Fuck off," Draco snapped. "Fine, I'll go back to my flat. But if she's put out, let me know. I'll get the elves to bring her a bottle of that piss-poor wine she guzzles as an apology."

With that, Draco stalked out. As the door slammed shut, Blaise smirked knowingly at himself in the lavatory mirror.

* * *

_AN: Finally, a little bit of romance in this slow-burning story! Hope you liked it... more to come!_


	13. Chapter 13

_It was nothing. _

_Just a kiss. _

_In front of two hundred and fifty people. _

_Including my boss, my co-workers and my best friends... and reporters. _

_I am not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that it was the most sexual, mind-numbing kiss I've ever had. I am not going to turn from "Respected Pal" to "Notch-In-The-Belt". _

_Or worse, to have him remind me that I'm a mudblood, and completely, utterly off limits to a pure-as-snow wizard. _

She felt her eyes prickle at the thought, and willed her mouth into a hard, tight scowl. Right. Time to go to breakfast. Time to face Malfoy after _That Kiss_. Nothing different. It was nothing. Right.

She put her hand on the doorknob... then hesitated. She let go and retreated to her bedroom.

Right. She would face him at lunch.

* * *

"Who would have pegged _Hermione Granger_, dull-as-dishwater, exam-revision-expert, as such a sexy piece?" Malfoy asked his reflection as he towelled his hair dry. "Surely she didn't learn that from the Weasel."

"You mean that mudblood whom you took to your bed?" one of his ancestral paintings asked loudly. "In my day, we would have used her liver for potions or Imperio'ed her..."

He shot a quick silencing spell over the painting; better than to _Incendio_ it into a pile of ash. After all, the frame was quite pricey.

"I didn't _take her to my bed_, you letch," he snapped at the indignant portrait. "I just let her sleep there."

That, he supposed, was the problem. He really, really wanted her in his bed. Preferably with him on top of her. His mind had concocted fantasy after fantasy since that incredible kiss the day before.

He'd go into her classroom on some pretense tear off those bookish, teacher-y robes – she'd be wearing black stockings, silk knickers and a lace brassiere, he decided – and ask to be taught a lesson, preferably on top of her wooden desk. Or he'd slip into her apartment after curfew and she'd be so overwhelmed with passion that she'd take him against that crumbling stone wall. Or they'd slip into the library for a quick shag in between two of the more obscure shelves, trying to keep silent so Pince and the halfwit children wouldn't discover them...

Malfoy realized, with a start, that Granger was probably now sitting at the breakfast table, joking with Blaise. She had probably forgotten about the kiss already; was probably oblivious to his sexual frustration.

It was the first time Malfoy had experienced unanswered passion before. It was the first time he'd ever wanted a woman and felt that he was completely, utterly out of his league.

It was a depressing thought.

He turned back to his bedroom, curled under the covers, and decided to sleep in.

* * *

Blaise looked down the head table and saw two empty chairs where Malfoy and Granger usually sat. He rolled his eyes.

Really. The two of them were _so_ childish. And their mutual absence simply fuelled rumours. Flitwick had winked and made an offhand comment about late night romps; McGonagall had muttered about lax morals and _young people these days_; the children just sniggered and stared at the two empty seats.

The entire school would be buzzing about how Granger and Malfoy had _definitely_ shagged the night before. Blaise strongly suspected that both were just too mortified to show their faces.

A white owl carrying a sheaf of parchment flew over the table and looked questioningly at Hermione's seat.

"I'll take it to her," Blaise told the owl.

Seemingly satisfied, it dropped the parchment onto Blaise's now-empty plate.

Blaise examined the paper and smirked. He recognized Narcissa Malfoy's swirling handwriting and pale-pink stationary anywhere.

* * *

Blaise decided he was just going to tell them to go on a date and lay off all the angsty self-indulgence. Granger being the more worrisome of the two, he decided she would be the best one to start with, so once he finished his breakfast, he headed straight for her flat.

Granger looked a mess - but she often did, so it didn't particularly surprise him. Her hair stuck out in all directions, and her eyes were red. Three empty teacups sat on her coffee table, and a stack of books lay on the floor.

She noticed his inquisitive stare. "I couldn't sleep."

"Well, you look completely shagged out," Blaise said. "Which is good. When neither of you showed up for breakfast, everyone assumed you two had spent the night doing the horizontal tango."

"What? Why wasn't Draco there?"

Blaise shrugged and idly examined his fingernails. "I suppose just like you... overwhelmed with embarrassment and a propensity to over-think just about any mundane social interaction."

Her face turned red and she opened her mouth to deny it.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," he pre-empted her. "I found Draco having a hissy fit in the lav last night after your snog-fest."

She cringed. "Because he kissed a muggleborn."

"What?" He rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously not. Don't be stupid."

But Granger's uncertain expression told him that it most certainly wasn't obvious to her. Perhaps, Blaise reconsidered, they weren't ready to accept the chemistry that everyone else saw between them; perhaps they still needed time to forget the war and house rivalries and past history.

Or perhaps the two of them were just utterly neurotic.

"Well then why would Draco get upset?" she demanded. "And I am not stupid."

"Because he thought you'd be angry!"

Hermione surveyed him with an expression that clearly read disbelief. "Draco does _not_ worry about what girls think of him. That much I know for certain."

Blaise sighed. "But you're not some _girl,_ Hermione."

She stared absently at the wall. "No, I suppose I'm not, am I?"

Blaise wasn't sure how to interpret that, so he clapped her on the back and gave up on the argument. "You'll show up for lunch, right? I don't like eating alone."

She nodded.

* * *

Blaise let himself into Draco's apartment and found his friend still asleep.

"Wake up, you lazy arsehole." Blaise yanked open the curtains. "It's nearly eleven."

Draco rolled over and groaned. "You're such a prat, Zabini. I was having a great dream."

"Let me guess. You, Granger, and a bed?"

Draco's face turned red and he remained silent.

"Hit a bit close to home, eh?"

"Fuck off," Draco mumbled. After a moment, he spoke again. "She wasn't too annoyed this morning, was she?"

"Actually, funny thing, that." A smug grin crossed Blaise's lips. "She didn't show up for breakfast, either."

"What?"

"Yes, it really sent the rumour mill spinning. Everyone now thinks the two of you were having a lie-in after a long night of passion." Blaise watched Draco's expression turn from worry to panic. "But that's what you wanted, right, Draco? You've even convinced Weasel by this point."

Draco didn't seem to hear Blaise, he rolled out of bed and grabbed the nearest pair of pants and a shirt. "I've got to fix this... shit. Granger – I mean, she's a brilliant war hero, and she still hung out with me even knowing all the shite I've gotten into. You know, I thought for once I didn't make a fuck-up of everything..."

"Draco, calm down. I already went to check up on her. She's not angry. She just had trouble sleeping. She'll be at lunch. Maybe you should make an appearance."

Draco nodded absently and stared at the window with a melancholy expression.

Blaise shook his head. How two seemingly intelligent people could be _so_ oblivious was beyond him.

"Get out of bed and dressed," Blaise snapped. "Granger won't have much respect for you if you show up to lunch looking like a person who lives under a bridge."

That snapped Draco out of his reverie, and he glowered at Blaise. "Well then get the fuck out of my room, Zabini. I'm not giving you a free show."

* * *

Draco's breath caught when he spotted her. She'd arrived for lunch first and was laughing at one of Zabini's jokes. Her hair bounced as she laughed. Her cheeks were pink with amusement. Her slim, long fingers delicately brought a slice of bread to her mouth. She was beautiful. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

He could tell when she spotted him, because she froze. Her brown eyes widened. She did not look pleased to see him, and he fought his sudden urge to hug her.

"Hello." Her voice had a squeaky, taut tone.

"Hi," he replied awkwardly and sat down beside her.

There was a moment of tense silence between them. Neither met each others' eyes.

"I'm sorry that made such a spectacle in front of the cameras..." she began.

He simultaneously started, "I hope your insomnia wasn't because of what happened..."

They both stopped.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

"No," Hermione replied. "Are you?"

"No! Of course not."

"I mean, you expected this as part of our original deal, right?"

_The deal_, Draco thought, his heart dropping in his chest, _it was all fakery for those photographers_.

He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he didn't _want_ to go to America anymore; the idea now sounded childish and crude; that he hadn't thought of it in ages.

But she still seemed to want to be friends, at least.

"Everything – you know – is all right then? I don't want this to get weird, like one of the girls I've dated or something," he said.

Her face took on a strange, crumpled expression, but it vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

"No. I don't want that either," her voice was quiet. "So we'll just pretend like that... um... kiss... didn't happen."

"Right. Okay," he replied. After a silent moment, he held out an olive branch. "Drinks tonight, then, at my place?"

"Why not?" she replied, sounding far too cheerful for Draco's tastes. "I'll bring some wine."

Blaise cleared his throat, reminding them of his presence.

"Yes, Zabini, I know, you told me so..." Draco sighed.

"Actually," Blaise said nonchalantly, "I thought you might be interested in the mail that was left for Hermione this morning."

He set the pink card between them.

_Miss Hermione Jean Granger, _

_Madam Narcissa Casseiopeia Aurelia Black Malfoy requests your presence at an afternoon tea, to be held at Malfoy Manor this Sunday, the nineteenth day of December. _

Hermione and Draco looked at each other and cringed.

* * *

**AN:** I haven't forgotten about this story, I just haven't had access to a computer with internet (malware... malware... and more malware). Any suggestions, demands, errors - as usual, point them out in the comments!


	14. Chapter 14

AN: This chapter's short, but hopefully it can tide you over until the next installment!

* * *

Hermione unsteadily uncorked her bottle of elf-wine.

"Damn it! The bottle's empty."

"Good, it tastes like piss anyhow," Malfoy muttered. "Reach under my cabinet and pull out the brandy - there's a good girl."

"Good girl? I'm not a dog, Malfoy," she replied tartly. "There's no brandy left, either, just a full bottle of... Creme de Violette. It's so pink... and creamy. How precious, Draco! Do you have a bottle of Shirley Temple mix hidden in your cupboards, too?"

"Oh, shut up, Granger, my mother bought it for me." He sighed deeply. "It'll have to do, the shops are all closed in Hogsmeade by now. Blaise, bring out a few glasses, will you? I'm a bit wobbly on my feet right now."

"That's because you're a drunk, Malfoy. Totally unseemly behaviour for Hogwarts' future Potions professor," Hermione bellowed.

"I'm not going to take over for Slughorn. People like me, who are set to inherit vast sums of galleons, don't generally plan on _working_. McGonagall can find someone else to pay a pittance and treat like shite. I will be drinking pricey brandy and smoking even pricier cigars in my manor house and ignoring the plight of the unwashed masses."

Blaise stood up. A nauseated expression ghosted his pretty features, and he dove for the lavatory. The horrible sound of retching followed a moment later.

"Blaise has drank too much," Hermione said, plunking herself down next to Malfoy on the sofa.

"Your powers of observation astound me," he said.

"Just as your ability to be an arse whether drunk or sober astounds me."

"What can I say, Granger? It's a gift."

"Is that your gift? I thought your gift was - in your words - your god-like shagging ability."

Malfoy felt his cheeks grow warm, and he struggled for a response. Luckily, Blaise saved him by staggering out of the lavatory.

"I'm out. No more for me, my friends, my good, good friends. Sorry, Drakey, you'll have to fetch your own glass to drink your poncy violet liquor."

"Waste of dishwashing anyhow, we'll drink from the bottle," Hermione reassured him. "Do you want me to walk him home, Malfoy?"

"Walk me home? I'm not a dog either, Granger," Blaise muttered. "It's just down the corridor anyhow. I've got plenty of sober-up potion."

"I brewed it," Malfoy whispered into Hermione's ear. "So it'll work like a charm."

"Malfoy, successfully brewing a fourth year potion is nothing to brag about," Hermione replied.

Malfoy scowled. "You _look_ like a sexy twentysomething, and yet you _sound_ like McGonagall..." He paused. "I think you need to drink more, Granger."

Blaise covered his ears. "Ugh, too much talking. I'm leaving."

The door shut behind him with a bang. Malfoy unscrewed the bottle of Creme de Violette and took a sniff.

"God, that's awful. It reminds me of Weaselette's rubbishy perfume."

Hermione took a swig. "Actually, I quite like it. Your mother and I agree on one thing."

Draco frowned at the mention of his mother.

"Ugh, my mother's invite. I'd completely forgotten about it. She'll be waiting for a response."

"I don't particularly want to go to Malfoy Manor." She bit her lip worriedly. "No offense. I don't exactly have great memories of your home."

When Hermione put it that way, Malfoy wondered _how_ his mother could be so stupid. Invite his girlfriend into the house where she'd been tortured? Have tea and crumpets right over where she'd been imprisoned? Pass by portraits who would undoubtedly screech racist epithets as she walked past?

It was, in thinking on it, the height of obliviousness. He jumped to his feet and began to scrabble through his desk drawers.

"Fuck, I'm all out of quill ink," he muttered.

"I left a few biros in the upper drawer when I was marking essays here last week," she said, "use one of those."

He smiled at the idea. Using muggle featherless quills to write a note to his mother? A note to turn down her invite for tea with all of her stuffy, well-bred friends? It was too perfect.

He pulled out a sheet of creamy parchment, fisted the biro, and scrawled out a response.

"Granger, come and look at this. Give your approval before I owl it off to her."

_DEAR MOTHER_

_GRANGER AND I ARE VERY BUSY THIS WEEKEND AND WILL NOT BE COMING FOR TEA_

YOUR SON DRACO

"Why did you write it all in capitals?" Hermione asked. "And wouldn't it have looked better with punctuation?"

"I don't know. I'm drunk, Granger. It's an accomplishment that I managed to spell my own name properly," he replied. "Besides, who cares? I'm not escorting you to the manor so my mother can interrogate you over petits fours. It's ridiculous. It's offensive."

She nodded slowly and glanced again at the note. "Well, thanks, Malfoy. Owl it off."

He rang a bell for his pure-white owl and tucked the note against its leg.

"Bring that to my mother," he told it. "The faster, the better."

The two of them settled onto the sofa in comfortable silence, passing the bottle between them.

"So what if she asks what we're doing?"

"Hmm?" Draco asked.

"What if your mother asks why we're too busy for tea?"

"Ah... we're going Christmas shopping. I was planning to floo to London this weekend anyhow." He yawned widely. "That's convincing, right?"

"Ugh, only a week left. I'd forgotten." She sighed.

"We'll get it done in a few hours. Just buy expensive wine, chocolate or jewellery for everyone."

Hermione yawned and sank deeper into the sofa cushions. "Not all of us have the money for those kind of beautiful, impersonal gifts, Draco. I suppose Blaise and I will hit up the cheaper shops while you throw galleons around the boutiques like tuppence."

He made a vaguely affirmative noise, but before she mentioned it, he had no intention of bringing Blaise along. Not that he would tell her that, of course.

A few minutes later, he could tell that she was falling asleep when she shifted. Her head slid toward the crook of his elbow; and although it uncomfortably weighted down his arm, he couldn't bring himself to push her off.

"Malfoy?" Her voice was muffled with sleep.

"Yeah, Granger?"

"Do you really think I'm a sexy twentysomething?"

He grinned and fought off the urge to brush her hair from her face. "Of course. A Malfoy wouldn't be caught dating just some average looking bint."

She smiled and he could feel her chest shake with sleepy laughter. "Silly."

Her breathing evened out, and her weight completely fell onto his shoulder. After a few minutes' spent watching her peaceful expression, his arm began to fall asleep. As delicately as he could, he slipped her off his shoulder and eased her until she lay flat on his sofa.

"Sweet dreams," he murmured.

She smiled in her sleep. After draping a blanket across her, he doused the lights with a quick _Nox_, and retreated to his own bed.

xxx


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning, as they nursed their hangovers over fried egg and beans, a pristine white owl dropped a letter over Draco's plate. Both he and Hermione recognized the pink parchment, and shot each other looks of dread. Worst of all, the owl waited for a response, sitting delicately on a roof-rafter and peering down disdainfully at Draco.

Draco picked the letter up with his fingertips like a piece of mouldy bread, and gingerly tore off the wax seal. He gestured for Hermione to lean over and read it with him.

_Dearest Draco,_

_Surely shopping can wait until next week? I have already bought the very best tea and biscuits! Please reconsider. You wouldn't want them to go to waste. _

_With All of my Love,_

_Your Mother_

Hermione cringed.

"What nonsense. Father loves tea and biscuits." Draco sighed. "Maybe I'll get her a Pomeranian for Christmas. Something to focus on instead of me."

"For once, Draco Malfoy doesn't want to be the focus of all the attention, hmm?" Hermione teased.

"Oh, quiet," he replied, "I'm trying to reply to it before this owl shits on my breakfast."

He pulled a biro from his pocket and scribbled a note at the bottom of the pink letter.

_Dearest Mother,_

_No, thank you. Father has never turned down tea and biscuits. _

_Draco_

"There." He tied it to the owl's leg. "That puts an end to that."

* * *

The next day, the owl arrived before Hermione and Draco did. It was staring down Blaise when they entered the Great Hall.

"Your mum's bird is making me nervous, Draco," Blaise muttered. "I've been here five minutes and it keeps looking at me like I'm a fat mouse. By the way, it dropped another letter."

"Shite, not another one," Draco said. "That's three letters in three days."

"She's nothing if not persistent. Remember when she tried to convince you to grow your hair out by sending you photo clippings of 'traditionally coiffed wizards' for a full month?" Blaise snorted. "Or when she tried to get you to marry Pansy by inviting her to every party and every family event you had for a year?"

Draco cringed at the memory. "Thank God Pansy's impatient and moved along quickly. My mother might've succeeded and Pansy would've been a lot less rich and I would've been a lot less happy."

"She's right about the hair, though. I don't think you'd look half-bad with a longer style." Hermione commented as she chewed through a rasher of bacon. "You're very lucky to have that pretty Malfoy hair, you may as well show it off."

Draco's hand went instinctively to his head, and he felt his cheeks warm with self-conscious pleasure. Granger liked his hair. Maybe he _would_ grow it out - after all, this short cut looked a bit young, a bit too much like a student.

"Erm, Draco, the owl's really starting to irritate us," Hermione said loudly. "Stop admiring your hair and check the letter."

He snapped back to reality and tore open the pink parchment.

_Dearest, Dearest Draco,_

_I am really very upset over your letter. One would think you do not want your own mother to meet your girlfriend. If she becomes a Malfoy soon (as I constantly hope for, as domestic felicity is one of the greatest joys in life), she will see me every day at the breakfast or supper table. I will organize ladies' luncheons and charity teas with her, and help out when she has my first grandchild (I do so love babies, Draco). Would it not be better for us to become friends as soon as possible? _

_Moreover, your father has been told to cut back on sweets - something about a high incidence of diabetes in purebloods. I really didn't pay attention, all I know is that I have two dozen madeleines and nobody to eat them. _

_I really do hope you will stop by for tea, now that you know how VERY important it is to me. _

_Your loving Mother_

Blaise snorted, but Hermione and Draco didn't see the humour in the letter. They shot each other horrified looks. Draco dropped the letter onto the table as if burnt.

"Me, Hermione Malfoy?" she squeaked. "It even _sounds _utterly absurd."

"You, organizing a ladies luncheon?" he asked. "Maybe a ladies' drinking competition. Can you imagine if you had to organize a luncheon? You'd just as likely feed them those muggle horror foods... I can only imagine Madam Goyle being confronted with a chicken tikka."

"Just because something's not boiled to death doesn't make it horror food..." she muttered.

"She's back on the grandchild thing, too." Draco shuddered. "If we had lunch with her, she'd probably ask us about our sex lives. She might even slip a potion into your food to help you get knocked up faster."

He pulled out a pen and scribbled a note back.

_Mother,_

_No. Feed the biscuits to the bird, if you have to. _

_Draco_

He tied it to the bird's leg and it flew off in a dramatic flurry of white wings.

"I hope I was firm enough this time and that's that."

"But I think it probably isn't, knowing your mother," Blaise added.

Hermione and Draco shot each other worried looks.

* * *

_Draco had a long day at work - the students behaved horribly as Christmas approached. Two of the children had turned themselves green. One had destroyed an expensive copper cauldron._

_He couldn't wait to get home. And, when he opened the door and saw Hermione, curled on his chaise longue, two cups of tea on the side-table, he couldn't help but smile. _

_"Hello, Draco. I heard you'd had a few problems in class today, so I thought you'd like a cuppa when you got home... Irish Breakfast, your favourite." She patted the seat next to him. "Come here, I'll give you a back rub..."_

_"Mmm, that would be great..."_

_He settled next to her and felt light fingertips on her shoulder. But as he breathed in, he caught an unpleasantly familiar fragrance. _

_"Hermione, darling, are you wearing some sort of new perfume?"_

_"Draco?" she replied. _

_"It just... well, it reminds me of my father's hair straightening potion. It's a little disconcerting." He felt her fingers dig harder into his shoulder and shake him gently. "Ooh, not so hard, Hermione..."_

_"Draco!"_

_Hermione's voice had faded away and suddenly sounded horribly masculine..._

"Draco. Wake up."

His eyes flew open. His father, his face pulled into its usual sneer, leaned over his bed.

"You've been moaning that mudblood's name for a good five minutes, Draco."

He felt his face flush scarlet. What if Hermione had _overheard? _Last night she'd fallen asleep on the sofa again.

"Shut up."

The words spilt from his mouth before he could stop himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for his father's retaliatory slap or hex, but it never came. After a minute, he tentatively opened his eyes. His father had moved to the corner of the room, and was idly examining a book on American potions theory.

"How did you get in here, Father?"

Draco didn't miss the condescending sneer his father shot his way.

"You've used the same wards since you were twelve years old, Draco." He paused. "Or did you mean to Scotland? I should think it obvious that I flooed."

Draco wondered if his father had seen Hermione on his way in. He glanced worriedly at his bedroom door, hoping she'd left his flat before his father's unwanted arrival.

"Why do you look so nervous, boy?" Lucius's questioning gaze hardened into realization. "Was she here, Draco? In your _flat?_"

He stayed quiet. His sulky expression would answer the question anyhow. The silence seemed to overwhelm the room, and Draco wondered why his father didn't just get on with the scathing, barely-whispered diatribe on blood traitors and filthy mudblood culture. To most, his father looked under complete control, but Draco could see the hints of barely-contained anger in his tight lips and pinched brows.

"Your mother would like to know if you would reconsider her invitation this weekend to the Manor." Lucius's voice was deathly quiet. "She would like to meet your _girlfriend _properly."

"I told Mother we're busy," Draco replied.

"Don't lie, Draco. She is your mother, and you can skip one night of alcoholic debauchery to visit her for tea," Lucius replied with finality. "She expects you at two p.m."

"I am not lying, Father. I am going Christmas shopping." Draco's voice came out clipped with anger, and he realized with a start that his tone was identical to his father's. "Honestly, have you considered what you're asking? Do you remember what Aunt Bella did to her in our home? We _were_, after all, the audience. Maybe for old times' sake, Mother can set up her tea set in the dungeon, and we can all reminisce about the time she was imprisoned there, hmm? What a stupid, insensitive, halfwitted idea, tea at the Manor. My answer is no, and it will stay _no_."

When he breathlessly finished his rant, he tried to bravely meet his father's gaze. His father stared at him with an unfamiliar expression. This worried Draco far more than a shouting match or a smack would have, as he'd never seen his father's flinty gray eyes bore so deeply into him.

Lucius swallowed and broke away his gaze.

"I will tell your mother that you're busy." He gave an oddly awkward nod. "I must be going..."

He left in a hurry, his cape catching in the door on the way out. Draco's stomach did a flip-flop. His father was always cool, calm, in control of the situation; it was always Draco who was left silent and awkward in the face of Lucius's anger. How - and when - had they somehow switched places?

It unsettled him more than any shouting match would have.

* * *

Hermione settled into the cracked vinyl loveseat next to Blaise and took a deep swig of coffee. She leaned in to whisper so that the other teachers couldn't eavesdrop.

"I had _just_ left his flat this morning - was maybe halfway down the corridor - when guess who storms past me? His father. I nearly jumped out of my skin."

"Ohhh, that's a bad sign. Lucius tends to show up when Draco's done something awful... you know, to give Draco a bit of shouting or smacking." Blaise frowned. "Did Lucius see you?"

"No, you know I always put an invisibility charm when I leave your flat or Draco's... I don't need any more kindling for the rumours about my sex life."

"Or lack thereof," Blaise replied. "I really think you should keep your eyes open for a good man... or even just a mediocre one. You need some male companionship."

"Hey, if I need it, I could always have Ron," she protested.

"Hell, Hermione, I could probably have Ron, if he got drunk enough. You need higher standards than that - although don't set your standards too high, either, or you'll end up old, single, and surrounded by thirty kneazles like Professor Sprout."

"Oh, piss off..."

Blaise laughed, but his laughter died away as the staff room door swung open. "Here comes Draco. He doesn't look happy."

Hermione's eyes shifted to the open doorway. She noticed that he'd worn his finely-tailored charcoal-wool robes, the ones that buttoned up to the throat. He was clean shaven, and she admired his slender fingers as they curled around a cup of coffee.

He looked her way; when his flinty eyes met hers, her breath stopped and she felt her face warm.

She knew that feeling, and she dreaded it. Draco could never know. She'd keep it secret.

"Hermione?"

She jumped at Draco's voice.

"Uh... Draco... I mean, Malfoy... right..." She felt her face grow hot and both Blaise and Draco were staring at her with concerned expressions. "Sorry, just thinking."

"I was just saying that my mother won't be sending any more letters." He reached out and gently touched her shoulder; just that faint touch sent her heart racing and her cheeks smouldering. "Are you sure you're all right? Do you need a potion?"

"I'm fine. Really."

She smiled brightly, but she felt like crying. She could no longer pretend otherwise. She had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.

* * *

AN: As usual, please give me any concrit you have! (or even kudos... I like that too!)


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione hadn't considered that she and Malfoy would attract so much attention. At Hogwarts, their friendship was yesterday's news. The teachers and the students saw her and him together every day; there was nothing odd about it.

But here in Diagon Alley, the two of them elicited open, horrified gawking, frowning, and whispers. As they walked down the street, the crowds parted for them.

"It's not even as if we're playing it up for the cameras," Hermione hissed. "It's like the bloody Red Sea parting. I've never had so much personal space during holiday shopping."

"Well, at least there's some benefit to it." He snorted. "And you have to admit, we do make quite the unique pair - what with me in my tasteful, classically styled robes, and you in your positively slutty little Muggle skirt..."

She snorted and slapped his arm, eliciting a collective gasp from the crowds around them. "Because you look so terribly shaggable in your four layers of linen and wool."

He smirked. "I'm not complaining, Granger. Far from it. I'm a changed man - I no longer discriminate, and in fact, I welcome the day when Diagon Alley is full of young women running about in slutty little Muggle skirts."

"You're such a sexist prick, you know that?" She rolled her eyes. "And it's not _that_ short."

"Why didn't you just wear your..." he grimaced, "...jeans? It's only a couple degrees above freezing. You didn't dress up special, did you?" Draco asked. "Oh, Merlin's tits, you did dress up. I can tell by the sour look on your face."

An awkward silence fell between them.

"Well, Granger," Draco added snottily, "If I see Greg Goyle, maybe I can set you two up for Friday."

"Oh, fuck off. Stop being rude." Hermione frowned. "I just thought I might try to look nice for once, that's all. You're really over-thinking this skirt. By your reasoning, every time you pull off your robes and stagger about at the bar in your half-buttoned waistcoat, you're trying to pick up a new girlfriend."

He didn't answer, and Hermione suspected he was sulking. After a minute, he finally spoke.

"I've found that women don't react with quite the same enthusiasm to partially-dressed men as men react to partially-dressed women."

Hermione, thinking back to Draco's shower-slicked, towel-wrapped body, was inclined to disagree. Just the thought of his sinewy arms and broad shoulders sent a shiver through her.

Not that she'd admit it.

She realized, with a start, that she'd been staring blankly at his wool-encased torso, and he was now giving her an odd, questioning look.

"You all right there, Granger?"

Her face burned. "Jewelry!"

"Pardon?"

She pointed to the nearest shop. "Jewelry store. Didn't you say you wanted to pop in there?"

His eyebrow lifted. "I think you're going mad, Granger. Too much research and boozing. But you're right, I do need to pop in here."

The shop had a guard at the entrance. Hermione had never been to a shop with a guard. The older, moustached man smiled at Draco. "Young Mister Malfoy. A pleasure, as always."

But when Hermione followed a moment later, the gentleman narrowed his eyes at her. "And you are?" he asked.

Draco glanced backward with a disapproving glare. "My girlfriend." The man stared back blankly. "Hermione Granger? War heroine? Don't you read the papers?"

"No, Young Mister Malfoy. My apologies."

And the guard stepped backward, allowing them to pass without another word.

The jewelry shop had tasteful marble floors and smooth wooden-panelled walls. Crystal chandeliers hung over long, shining glass displays. Gold, silver and diamonds flashed against black silk pillows. The clientele could've been the members of a Death Eaters Anonymous meeting - she spotted Goyle Senior, Pansy Parkinson's equally pug-faced father, and a couple of matronly Greengrass women perusing the wares. Their eyes flicked toward Hermione, but never lingered; none of them commented. It was all very civilized.

"Mister Malfoy," saleswizards murmured as Draco walked past.

He began speaking to one, gesturing to a display of smooth black onyx pieces. Hermione hung back, feeling awkward - this certainly wasn't a place where she belonged. In every display case, glittering circlets, bracelets, earrings, brooches, tiaras, and rings were casually draped, as if they were nothing more than costume jewelry. She felt her face warm - she was totally, wholly out of her element. Even the cheapest bangle here was beyond her price range.

"Granger!"

Malfoy gestured for her to join him. She felt a reassuring hand on her arm, and a shiver went through her. He leaned his head into her ear, and to anyone else, it would look as if he was whispering sweet nothings.

"You look like a priest who's accidentally walked into the knickers section of a department store," he murmured. "You've every right to be here. Try to look like it."

She looked up at him. He looked back with amusement at her awkwardness. For a moment, she caught a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. It vanished, replaced with a resolute expression. His hand, which had been resting on her arm, tentatively slid around her waist. She froze with surprise, and he began to remove his arm - _no, no, no_ - Hermione's mind protested. Trying to reassure him, she leaned into his side, and she felt his arm once again clamp firmly around her waist.

Now the stares from other customers were open and unreserved.

They stood for a moment in silence. His warm body felt solid and comforting against hers. There was no awkwardness; they fit together like two puzzle pieces.

"So, Granger, give me some feminine insight," he finally said. "An onyx brooch for Mother, or an opal hairpin? Which would be more impressive?"

"I don't know. The most expensive jewelry I've ever worn was from Next."

The man behind the counter gave Hermione a distasteful frown; she wondered how he knew about cheap Muggle clothing chains.

"Well, what do you buy _your _mother, then?" Draco asked; his fingers had begun to draw gentle circles on her hip, and Hermione had to fight to concentrate on the conversation.

"What? My mother? Erm... I usually bake her some biscuits and give her a bottle of Baby Duck. She thinks it's cute and it only costs me about five quid."

He slid his arm away from her waist to go look at a display filled with pearls. Hermione tried not to let her disappointment show, and followed behind. Draco seemed completely unaffected by his display of affection, and continued chattering away as if nothing had happened.

Draco frowned. "Baking biscuits? That sounds complicated. I wouldn't have any idea how biscuits are made. I suppose I could just get the house-elves to make some and _say_ I made them..."

"That defeats the purpose, Malfoy." She muttered. "Look, does your mum really need more jewelry? Does she even _like _jewelry?"

"Don't all women like jewelry? I suppose not. But it's an easy gift." He let out a sigh. "You're really making me feel like a crap gift-giver, Granger. What about these?"

He gestured to the display of pearls.

"Well, I may think they're very beautiful, Malfoy, but how would I know what your mother would like? Really, not all women are the same."

His brow furrowed and his lips quirked into a pout. She knew he was growing frustrated and tired, and she felt her chest squeeze with affection and the desire to make him feel better - a feeling that had become all too common as of late. Rational Hermione, the Hermione of five months ago, would have simply rolled her eyes and found Malfoy childish and impatient. Now she found it _adorable_. And that, in turn, made her feel pathetic.

"Let's go get a drink," she suggested. "Don't worry, together I'm sure we'll think of something for her."

Malfoy gestured to the girl behind the counter, who handed Malfoy a tastefully-wrapped pink packet.

"What's in that, then?" Hermione asked.

"One overpriced, easy gift, charged to my father's account," he replied with a shrug. "Come on, let's head for the nearest pub. I want a pint and some chips before I can manage more... _shopping_."

* * *

AN: A shorter piece, but I have a fairly decent draft of the next chapter. I've had a few suggestions for future chapters (what you guys would like to see)... so keep the comments coming! I love 'em!


	17. Chapter 17

The waitress plunked a pint of lager and a basket of hot, greasy chips in front of Malfoy. Hermione, knowing his ritual, passed the salt and malt vinegar. He doused them on liberally, then began to delicately spear his chips onto a fork. Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed one.

"Hey, get your own," Malfoy protested. "You have a terrible habit of eating all of them, Granger, whether I order them, Blaise orders them, or you order them for yourself."

Hermione smirked and grabbed another. "I'm helping you stay on your Christmas diet."

Before he had a chance to respond, a gust of cold air burst from the open front door. The entire pub went silent.

Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in a cotton-candy confection of pink and brown silk, waltzed through the front door and straight toward their table. Her eyes landed disdainfully on the plastic-laminated menus and the food served in wicker baskets. She unfolded a cotton handkerchief, draped it onto the chair next to Draco, and seated herself next to him.

"Hello, Darling, hello Miss Granger."

It took Draco a moment to recover.

"Erm... Mother. How did you find us?"

"The St. Mungo the Martyr medal I brought you back from Lourdes has a half-dozen tracking spells in it. I didn't tell you to carry it _just _for good luck!" Narcissa simpered. "I'm never going to lose track of my little prince again."

Snickering rippled through the pub.

"Mother!" Draco hissed, his face aflame with embarrassment.

Narcissa looked down at the chips. "That's very carby, Draco. The stress of work isn't making you overeat, is it?"

"No," he bit back, his voice strained.

"Is it making you drink too much? You do seem to charge a lot of whiskey to your father's account."

"We keep it pretty tame, given the dimwits we work with," Hermione muttered.

Draco shot Hermione a look to be quiet, and she fought the urge to stick out her tongue in reply.

"At least I see you're with Miss Granger today, and not sweet little Blaise. I still had lingering thoughts that you and him were... well, you know. Very special friends."

Hermione stole another chip and turned to Narcissa with a matter-of-fact expression. "Well, going shopping with me doesn't disprove _that_. It's quite common, you know, for young gentlemen in the closet to find a fake girlfriend and tote her about as a public relations ploy. There's even a term for it, a _beard_."

Draco froze. He stared back at her with an expression that clearly read _what the fuck are you doing?_

"This isn't a _public relations_ stunt," he snapped.

Hermione's voice was low. "It isn't?"

His pewter eyes seemed to darken; his pale brows knitted together. For a moment, Hermione forgot that they weren't alone - that they sat in a crowded bar, that Draco's mother was seated not two feet away. Her stomach felt taut, like a balloon ready to snap, under his intense gaze. _This isn't a public relations stunt. _Her mind churned.

And then Narcissa spoke and interrupted the spell.

"Oh, don't be silly, Miss Granger," Narcissa replied airily. "I can tell that Drakie just _adores _you - he's so relaxed! He hasn't billed us for a single massage since he met you - it's obvious things are moving along nicely between you. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about children. What do you think of them, Miss Granger? I've found this wonderful potion that you add to tea which can increase the chances..."

"Mother!" Draco's voice had a strangled quality to it. "What do you want?

"Such a sharp tone, Draco." She shook her head sadly. "I wanted to ask you and Miss Granger to come to supper. I understand that perhaps I didn't extend the invitation as tactfully as I could have. I didn't think of how poor Miss Granger would feel, what with Auntie Bella's unwelcoming behaviour toward Miss Granger on her last visit to the Manor..."

"Visit? Unwelcoming behaviour?" Draco spluttered. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Calm down, Darling, deep breaths. I really wonder if this carby fried food is giving you some sort of hormonal imbalance," Narcissa replied. "I just thought maybe I could personally invite your Miss Granger. I know that your father can sometimes be a bit rough around the edges, and talking to one's future daughter in law requires a delicate woman's touch..."

"Mother, please stop."

"I assure you, Miss Granger, that the dungeons have been completely gutted and now house my porcelain cat collection and my old dresses. It's a far more positive space, and remodeled totally in accordance with feng shui principles. You wouldn't even recognize it. And I've even made one of the guest rooms Muggle-friendly! I've added an _air freshener!_"

"Oh, Father must just _love_ that," Draco muttered.

Narcissa just ignored Draco and continued chattering. "Really, Miss Granger, I have a lovely suite you could stay in over Christmas. Very modern - it even has a flushing lavatory - no need for house-elves to remove the chamberpots. I won't take no for an answer!"

Hermione froze and shot Draco a worried look.

"Mother, Granger's got her own parents and friends to celebrate with."

"Oh. I suppose that's understandable. New Year's then. We can have champagne! From what I've seen in the papers, both you and Miss Granger love to drink!"

Draco, at this point, had stopped trying to shut her up. His new tactic was to stare at her with an expression that clearly read _are you completely blotto?_ Narcissa noticed, and her perfectly-painted lips quivered.

"Darling, surely you understand why. The Manor is so wonderful. It's our home. I want to share that with the woman you love." Narcissa dabbed at her misty eyes with a white hankie, eliciting uncomfortable stares from the pub's patrons. "It's your heritage, and if you and Miss Granger marry, she will help pass that Malfoy family history down to your children. I'm sure that if Miss Granger just saw our home as a welcomed guest, that she would love it..."

"Fine!" Hermione snapped. "Fine! One visit. One, that's _it_."

"Oh, yay, how wonderful! I'm so happy! See you New Year's Eve, my Darling! Maybe Miss Granger and I could even go and get our nails done together!" Draco shot her an incredulous look and she shrugged. "Too much? Oh well. We'll have champagne at least. I've got to run, I have so much to prepare before then!"

Eyes now suddenly dry, she got up, kissed Draco on the head, and waltzed out.

Draco stared at Hermione with a disgusted expression. "You just _gave in_! She would've tired herself out in a few more minutes. What were you thinking? Now you'll have to spend a full day at the Manor, eating boiled meat and listening to portraits shout insults at you!"

Hermione threw her hands into the air. "I don't know! She just kept talking and talking and talking, and then she started to cry, and all the beer was gone and the chips too, and I just panicked!"

"Some help you are in a crisis. Who would've guessed that all the Dark Lord had to do to win the war was steal all your booze and cry a little?" He scowled at the empty tray. "Waitress, more beer please... a schooner. For each of us."

* * *

**AN: **Next chapter is done, it was just too big and I broke it up into Ch. 17 and Ch. 18. Thank you very much to the people who have pointed out little errors, made suggestions for sequels/epilogues, and have just generally encouraged me to keep posting. It's very generous of you.


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione stomped the snow off her boots and peeled off her knitted jumper as she tramped into Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The smell of warm gingerbread and chocolate wafted through the air. Multicoloured lights twinkled over the doorways.

Still, her mind lingered on Malfoy. Was he having fun? Who was he with? What was he doing?

"Hermione! Merry Christmas!" a chorus of voices greeted.

Most of the Weasley clan, associated wives and girlfriends, former Order members, and a half-dozen school friends sat around drinking and nibbling sweets. Christmas carols blasted from a stereo in the corner. She found Ginny and Ron in the corner, and settled into the sofa next to them. Harry approached with two pints of cider and handed one to Hermione, one to Ginny.

"How was your Christmas, Hermione?" Harry asked, giving her a tipsy kiss on the cheek.

"My aunt and my mum got into a fight over the proper way to mash potatoes, as usual. My cousin drank too much and started rapping. Other than that, though, quite nice."

"Any gifts from a certain _friend_ of yours?" Ginny asked, waggling her eyebrow. "And by _certain friend_, I mean Malfoy!"

Ron scowled and bolted his glass of whiskey.

"Ah, no..."

"Did you get him anything?" Ginny asked.

"Erm... just a little gift, a book about Margaret Thatcher... and I made some biscuits."

"He couldn't even be bothered to buy you a gift? It's true, money doesn't buy you class!" Ginny huffed.

"Ginny..." Harry gently interrupted, "I don't think they have the sort of relationship where they buy each other gifts..."

"Horse shite!" Ron bellowed. "I always got you gifts, Hermione. He's just using you for a quick shag! That's proof!"

"You mean like the _Big Book of Quidditch Stats _you got me last Valentine's? Or the sausage sampler basket last Christmas?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't be too proud of those, Ron."

Ron flushed scarlet; Ginny and Harry both laughed.

"Well, there are a couple of gifts for you under the tree, Hermione." Harry gestured. "And owls have been coming all day long with gifts for all of us - ever since The Prophet wrote about my Christmas party last week. There were a half-dozen drunks who tried to crash the party, too."

"A couple of ladies sent me photos of themselves," Ron pointedly told Hermione. "_Naked_ photos."

"That's good," Hermione absently murmured as she pawed under the tree. "Here's one for me."

The pink packet was a mystery. The outside simply read _Miss H.J. Granger_. The pale tissue paper looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite remember where she'd seen it before.

"Who's that from, then?" Ron asked through a mouthful of mince pie.

"I dunno. It came from a big fat owl this afternoon," Ginny replied, taking a swig of her drink. "Don't worry, there are no bombs or anything in it, I checked."

Hermione tore the seal off the pink paper. It unfurled, revealing a tiny black cushion adorned with a pair of pinky-fingertip sized pearls. A note fell free from the package.

_GRANGER_

_AN OVERPRICED, EASY GIFT. I'M A CRAP GIFT-GIVER, DEAL WITH IT. _

_MALFOY_

_P.S. I BOUGHT HER A POMERANIAN. BRING THICK GLOVES. THE LITTLE BASTARD BITES. _

Ginny whistled. "Crap gift giver? I hope that's a joke. Do you know how much those earrings cost?"

"What's he on about a Pomeranian?" Ron asked. "And why'd he write the entire thing in capital letters?"

Hermione spun around and discovered both Ron and Ginny were reading the note over her shoulder. She stuffed it in her shirt pocket. Her face warmed. Malfoy had _thought _of her. He'd bought her something pretty and romantic - in fact, had done so on their trip to London a week before. He'd delivered it in time for Christmas.

"The man's clearly batty," Ron said loudly. "And giving you a gift that expensive is just _tacky_, in my opinion."

"Oh, be quiet, you're just jealous," Ginny replied. "Put them on! Put them on! You've _got _to show Fleur - she'll be green with envy, ha! I've never seen you wear pearls... did Malfoy ask you what you wanted?"

"Not really..." Hermione replied slowly, running a finger over the cool, smooth surface of each earring. "I had no idea."

"See, he doesn't even know or care what Hermione likes!" Ron crowed.

"She definitely likes it better than a _sausage sampler, _Ronald!" Ginny snapped, then turned and shouted across the room, "Mum! Fleur! Come see what Hermione got from Malfoy!"

Fleur wandered over. Her eyes flicked between the earrings and Hermione's face. "Ah, it is the... what do you call it? Courtship jewelry. To encourage a betrothal. He has good taste."

Hermione snorted. "Malfoy'll get a kick out of that one. _Encourage_ a _betrothal_. Right up there with _get a job_ on his list of priorities."

"He's trying to _encourage _himselfinto your knickers!" Ron bellowed, knocking back another shot of whiskey.

"Oh, Lord, will you please shut up?" Ginny replied, snatching the jewelry box from Hermione's hand. "Come on, let's show these babies off to all the women around here!"

Hermione's face burned, and for a moment, she wished Malfoy had just bought her some socks and a bottle of cheap booze; but even with all the unwanted attention, she felt warm pleasure spread in her chest at the thought of him buying her a gift. Not just any gift, but a proper gift a man would buy for his girlfriend.

Harry settled into the seat next to her, his fingers steepled and eyes narrowed. "No, Hermione, wait a moment... I'm curious. What _was _Malfoy on about there... a Pomeranian and bringing thick gloves?"

Hermione blushed. How to explain to Harry that she was spending New Year's at Malfoy Manor? It definitely wouldn't go over well. Her pink cheeks and hesitation, however, told Harry that not all was well. He narrowed his eyes at her; she couldn't help but look even more guilty.

"Oh goodness," Harry said emphatically, "I forgot all about the cheese toasties I put in the oven. Hermione, why don't you join me in the kitchen? I love Gin, but when it comes to muggle appliances, I think you and I have the most experience, right?"

Ginny nodded distractedly, passing the pearl earrings over to Molly to admire. She barely noticed when Harry and Hermione slipped into the adjoining, Muggle-appliance-laden kitchen. Surrounded by complicated-looking muggle machinery, they'd be left alone.

"All right, out with it." Harry leaned against the counter. "You've got something going on with Malfoy. Those earrings must've cost two hundred quid. That's _not _what you buy your drinking buddy."

"No-oo, it's not like that..."

Her voice came out hesitant. Her traitorous mind kept reminding her of Malfoy's sarcastic jokes, his heated kiss, the way he gently tucked her into his couch when she got drunk at his flat... how even now, she wished he was at the party with her, whispering snide comments about other party-goers into her ear while knocking back pints.

"You can't even look at me, Hermione. _Are _the two of you - ah - _friends with benefits_? I won't judge..." He scowled. "Well, I'll try not to."

"No!" She sighed and put her head in her hands and tried to find a tactful way of saying it. "I suppose... I'm not really certain about what's going on with me and Malfoy. And there are moments where things are... awkward between us. All right? But he's never made a move on me, other than for the purposes of his... _photo opportunities_."

_Liar_, her mind reminded her, _what about his arm around you at the jewelry store? _But she didn't want to dwell on that; she didn't want to get her hopes up over one tiny gesture - one she didn't understand the motivation for - only to be disappointed.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

She traced her finger across the counter. "I don't know."

_Liar, liar_, her mind chided.

"Oh, Hermione." Harry looked at her with pity. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

She sighed and stared at the ceiling, willing away the dampness forming in her eyes. What _had_ she gotten herself into? When had she become this uncertain girl, hopefully over-analyzing every sign of affection from Draco Malfoy? Why, of all people, did it have to be _Malfoy_? Why not someone who she had some chance of success with?

"I'm a big girl, Harry," she finally said.

"I know. But Malfoy's a big arsehole," he replied, "and I don't trust him. Who knows what sort of intentions he has with you? I know it won't be honourable."

He slid on his oven mitts and yanked out a pan full of cheese toasties. Hermione had to smile at the sight of him glowering while wearing a pair of floral mitts. It broke the tension, and his scowl melted into a quirked smile.

"I know, Hermione, I need to let you sort this out yourself. But you know how much I hate him. He's an arrogant, spoiled brat."

"Yes, he definitely is," Hermione agreed. "But he's got his charms, once you get to know him."

"I'll take your word for it - I never plan on talking to the little prat again," he replied, taking a bite out of a toastie. "So what _was_ Malfoy talking about in his note - a Pomeranian? Bringing gloves?"

Hermione flushed. Right. Explaining to Harry that she was expected at Malfoy Manor on New Year's Eve. She took a moment to come up with the most diplomatic way to put it, but found that she didn't have the words. Instead, she tried blurting it out quickly, hoping that would soften the blow.

"Well, you see, I was out Christmas shopping last week with Malfoy, and we went to the pub, and his mother showed up. And she was talking and talking and talking about grandchildren and Malfoy Manor..."

Harry's face curled into a look of disgust. "_Grandchildren?_ You and Malfoy? Disgusting."

"Harry! Anyhow, Mrs. Malfoy's a bit emotional. She started to cry, and told me how she'd added an air freshener to the house, and by the time I knew it, I'd agreed to visit her for New Year's."

Slowly, Harry's face took on a vaguely nauseated expression. It took him a full ten seconds to reply.

"Let me get this straight. You agreed to meet Narcissa Malfoy for New Year's. At Malfoy Manor."

"Yes," she replied.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. And how does this in any way have to do with a Pomeranian?"

"Oh, right, the Pomeranian. Malfoy bought his mum the dog for Christmas. He's hoping she'll become a little less clingy now that she has a pet - she's far too involved in his life, considering he's twenty years old. It's really too bad she couldn't have more children."

"Too bad she couldn't have more children?" Harry exclaimed. "Look how the _one_ she produced turned out! Okay, all right, I shouldn't have said that, after all, you _alone _see _something_ of value in that little bastard. I'm going to make you a portkey. That way if they try torturing you or something, you can get the hell out of their torture Manor, go straight to my office, and lay a criminal charge against them. I would love to throw the wanker in Azkaban..."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Harry stuffed the last of his cheese toastie in his mouth in what appeared to be a forcible attempt to stop himself from talking.

"Hermione!" Ron's voice bellowed drunkenly into the kitchen. "That big fucking Malfoy owl is here again. Get it before I shoot a hex at it!"

Harry shot her a look of disapproval when she bolted into the living room to greet the owl. It was Narcissa's - she recognized it immediately - but it was not carrying pink paper, just a sheet of plain white parchment. The _HG _on the outside of the parchment was clearly Malfoy's poor handwriting. The other party-goers watched with open curiosity as she unfolded and read the note.

She smiled to herself and hid the note in her jeans pocket. Malfoy had been thinking of her, too.

* * *

**AN: **_im nut updating ubtil u giv me fiv god reviewz nd diz tim I men it!_ Just kidding - that's actually a line from my favourite fanfiction, My Immortal. Reviews are welcomed but totally not necessary. :D


	19. Chapter 19

Christmas at Malfoy Manor had never been so horrible. Usually, it was a grand affair - dancing, tables groaning under vast heaps of food, house-elves doing tricks at the threat of being given clothes, erudite discussions on blood purity.

Not this year - unsurprising, as most of the Malfoy friends and relatives had been killed, thrown in Azkaban, or were hiding out from their charges in Bulgaria. No... this year, it was just him, Father, Mother, and the newly-christened Mr. Fluffykin.

The three of them - the dog had been locked in the sitting room after it began to bark uncontrollably at the portraits - sat in awkward silence around the table. Draco had laid out Hermione's biscuits on a tray, alongside the Christmas goose. He'd been rather impressed by the gift, having never guessed at her hidden domestic skill - and Draco watched with silent satisfaction as his father downed three in succession.

"What?" his father asked coldly, a half-eaten biscuit clutched delicately between two fingers.

"Oh, nothing, Father. I just had forgotten how much you like shortbread," Draco replied innocently. "Perhaps we can finish opening gifts?"

His father narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the biscuits, but said nothing further. He shoved a purple velvet sack across the table at his son.

"I didn't wrap it," his father said tartly. "It's the same as I give every year, so there's really no point. Though I seriously considered a lump of coal, given your behaviour of late and a few of the bills you've charged to my account - which we _will _discuss later."

Draco scowled petulantly, but stuffed the usual sack of galleons into his robe pocket with a muttered, "Thank you, Father."

"Darling, I ordered you a new set of black dress robes. They'll arrive next Tuesday," his mother said to him. "Who knows? Maybe there will be a _big event _soon that you can wear them for!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," his father muttered, violently spearing a glace cherry with his fork.

"Language, Lucius!"

It was now his father's turn to glower petulantly at the tabletop. It was all so silent and awkward that Draco stood and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey from his father's sideboard, hoping that the alcohol would dull the awfulness.

"Bring me one too, boy," Lucius snapped. "A double."

Narcissa's delicately plucked eyebrow lifted. "My Christmas supper will not turn into an evening of drunkenness." She raised her wand and suddenly the glasses and bottle vanished. "Now we are all going to sit down nicely and we're going to enjoy this meal."

She began to chatter away about her New Year's decorating plans; Lucius said nothing more to Draco, but in an uncharacteristic moment of fatherly cameraderie, he lifted his wand and shot a silent spell at Draco's cup. When Draco tasted it, the water held a distinctly alcoholic aftertaste.

Still, the conversation was stilted, awkward, and there was no denying it - the Malfoy family had really gone downhill from the days of yore. It felt horribly depressing. Even worse, the more Draco drank, the more his thoughts wandered to Granger. She'd had Potter's big party to go to, for all of the war heroes. She was probably dressed in something slinky and sexy. She was probably dancing, drinking good wine, eating caviar and getting pawed at by that halfwit Weasley. Or some single, handsome war hero. That thought was even more horribly depressing.

Surely the pearls had earned him _some_ loyalty?

"Draco, are you all right?"

His mother's concerned voice snapped him out of his maudlin thoughts.

"You look as if you're dying, boy," Lucius replied unconcernedly. "You should take a potion."

"Yes, take a potion, Darling. There's some children's Pepper-up upstairs. You look quite unwell."

He nodded, thankful for the excuse to leave the dining table. Instead of going to the potions cupboard, he hurried to the owl shed, armed with a quill and paper. He wrote the note quickly, praying that she hadn't already picked up a solidly-muscled Auror to take home for the night.

_GRANGER, I'M BORED AS ALL FUCK_

_WHEN'S YOUR PARTY OVER, I WANT TO GO OUT_

_I MIGHT EVEN PAY IF YOU'RE NICE_

The owl returned a half-hour later, bearing the same note, with Granger's tidy handwriting scribbled at the bottom:

_Come at midnight, I can slip out then. _

* * *

Hermione looked around to make sure nobody was watching her. Remnants of the party lay about the room - empty bottles, paper plates, half-eaten cheese toasties, and plastic cups. Ron and Dean Thomas were, oddly, sleeping next to each other on a trundle bed. Fleur and Bill sat on a chair, sleepily nuzzling one another. Ginny and Harry had retreated upstairs half an hour before.

Moving slowly to avoid waking anyone, she climbed off the sofa, collected up her gifts, and pulled on her boots and jumper. It all felt so secretive, so surreptitious, and it sent a thrill through her. She could hear the sound of footsteps from upstairs, and rushed out the front door - she wanted to avoid awkward conversations about where she was headed and with whom. Or worse, why Malfoy was standing in front of No. 12 Grimmauld Place in the dead of night. That could come across as understandably suspicious.

When she opened the front door, he was already standing on the sidewalk, dressed in black trousers and a long black dress coat. His blonde hair was now long enough that he could tie it back at the neck. He looked tall and elegant, and her heartbeat picked up speed just at the sight of him.

She stumbled down the walk; he hurried forward, caught her arm, and tucked it under his.

"You're three sheets to the wind. You'll kill yourself with all this ice around." He handed her a phial. "Here, it's Sober-up. I figured you'd need it."

"Thanks." She beamed at him. "You look nice tonight. Your hair looks lovely, I just want to touch it."

He snorted. "You're _definitely_three sheets to the wind. Sober Granger wouldn't say something like that."

She stuck out her tongue at him and downed the potion. Her tipsy head cleared instantly, though her interest in his hair did not.

"I take it you didn't have a great Christmas?" she asked.

"Horrible. I needed to get the hell away from there." He scuffed his black shoe in the snow and stared off into the distance. "So, did you enjoy yourself?"

She didn't miss the hint of bitterness. "I did. I drank a bit too much cider and ate quite a few cheese toasties."

"Where are your clothes?" he asked.

"Clothes?"

"The dress you wore to the party," he asked, looking at her as if she were quite stupid.

"I wore this." She gestured to her jeans and jumper. "What sort of party do you think it was? There's no reason to dress up for a party full of Weasleys."

"What about the Alpha Weasel?" he asked.

Was that a hint of uncertainty in his voice? He kept his mouth in its usual straight line, but after spending so much time with him in the past four months, she could see the questioning look in his silver eyes. She still held his arm, and she felt his muscles tense up beneath her fingers when he mentioned Ron.

Surely he wasn't jealous? It couldn't be - Draco Malfoy, the rich, indulged, promiscuity king of Slytherin, feeling indimidated by salt-of-the-earth Ron Weasley?

"I'm definitely not putting out any effort to dress nicely for Ron," she replied.

He seemed to relax. "But I thought you wanted to get back with him."

_Yes, that was my original idea, wasn't it? _She shivered at the thought.

"Granger, you're so cold you're shivering." Draco's voice was silky.

His arm slid around her back. He paused; finding no resistance, he brought her in for a hug, his arms encircling her waist, his chin resting lightly on her head. Her initial surprise dissolved, and she melted into him, wrapping her hands around his body and pressing her face into his chest. In the silence, she could hear his heartbeat. The warmth radiated from his body. He smelled like woodsmoke and whiskey.

"Did you like the gift?" his voice was a whisper; she could feel his hot breath on the shell of her ear.

The pit of her stomach felt like a hot liquid steel had coalesced in it. Her breathing grew quicker, and she felt her skin warming, even in the cold winter air.

"Yes," she replied, her voice low and throaty.

"Good." And then she felt it - his head drop to press a warm, chaste kiss to her forehead. "Come on, let's go before you freeze."

His arm slipped around her waist, and she disapparated with him.

Neither of them had noticed the single light on in No. 12 Grimmauld Place, or the darkened silhouette watching from behind the window.

* * *

**AN:** Any thoughts on where they could be going? Any ideas on who's staring out the window? I still haven't _quite_ decided...


	20. Chapter 20

"I offer to pay for _anywhere_, Granger, and _this_ is where you want to go?" Draco asked, plunking the Tesco's bag down on the linoleum floor. "We could've portkeyed to Ibiza, or the Azure Coast..."

Hermione yawned, kicked off her boots, and peeled off her snow-dusted jumper. "You said anywhere, and I'm sick of partying. I want to be at home. If you're uncomfortable being at a Muggle..."

"No, it's fine," he interrupted quickly. "It's just... different."

"It's fine, nothing will kill you, I promise - well, unless you stick a finger in a socket or something stupid like that." His eyes widened, and she laughed. "Come on, Malfoy, don't just stand in the foyer."

He tentatively walked inside and looked around. "So this is a Muggle kitchen. Is that a microwave oven?"

She glanced in the direction of his pointed finger. "No, Malfoy, that's a toaster. For making toast."

"Thanks, Granger, since the _name_ of the appliance made it so difficult to figure out the purpose." He rolled his eyes. "Where are your parents?"

"I think they're already gone - they've got a five-thirty a.m. flight from Gatwick to Albufeira. My mum's Christmas present to my dad." She gestured to the tea-kettle. "Can you fill that with water and push down on that red button? You've never tasted anything quite like Pot Noodle as a late night snack."

"This isn't going to be another joke food, like that time you tricked me into eating raw fish, is it?"

"I'm telling you, Malfoy, that wasn't a prank..."

The kitchen door swung open, revealing a tall, thin man with graying, frizzy hair, carrying two bulging, mismatched suitcases. Hermione jumped at her father's unexpected appearance.

"Hermione? I thought you were at your friend's party." He spotted Malfoy. "Oh, you've brought home a friend."

She knew he was awaiting an introduction. "Right. Erm, Dad, this is Draco Malfoy..."

His cheeks reddened. "That boy who used to make fun of you at school? That one who was a... what do you call it, a Death Dealer?"

"Death Eater," Malfoy corrected with a grimace.

"Dad, he doesn't do those things anymore. Now he's studying to be a potions master."

Her father looked totally unimpressed. "A potions master? Sounds a bit like that chakra crystal healing programme that your cousin Emily... or, sorry, _Dharma, _went to."

Hermione pursed her lips, and her father had the good sense to look mildly embarrassed. He set down the suitcases and leaned against the counter.

"So... Draco. Are you my daughter's new boyfriend?"

Normally, she would've admonished her father for his blatant rudeness; not today. She wanted to hear Malfoy's answer. He looked her way, eyes wide and questioning, then toward her father. Her heartbeat quickened, fearful he'd say _no, absolutely not_. But, after the easy affection in front of No. 12, she had begun to suspect that they might be, sort-of, _almost_ seeing each other.

"Well, Sir..." Malfoy seemed to be searching for words. "Your daughter and I are friends... very good friends..." He furrowed his brow again. "I think we're rather close..."

"You're not actually answering my question," her father asked, his eyes pinning Malfoy like a bug.

Malfoy hesitated, searching once again for words. Hermione finally stepped in.

"What if we are?" she asked.

Malfoy's eyes met hers. His furrowed brow and uncertain expression softened, and if it were anyone but Malfoy, she'd have described his smile as shy. She smiled back. It felt awfully conspiratorial.

"Well... if you're happy, that's all that matters, I suppose." Her father sounded unconvinced. "Don't burn down the house while I'm gone."

Hermione's mother sauntered into the kitchen. She eyed Malfoy up and down with an approving nod, and her eyes flicked back to her husband. "Hello, Hermione - and your young man. Don't worry, Dear, I think at their age we can trust them alone."

Mr. Granger muttered something inaudible and shuffled toward the door with the cases.

"Why don't I levitate your bags..." Malfoy offered, trying, in a rare moment, to be helpful.

"No!" Hermione and her mother chorused. Hermione leaned into Malfoy's ear. "Dad's not a huge fan of magic."

On his way out the door, Mr. Granger glanced back toward Malfoy. His eyes fell onto Malfoy's exposed arm, and his lip curled. "Young man, is that a tattoo? Is it of a snake?"

"Come along, Dear, we'll miss our flight," Mrs. Granger interrupted pointedly; her husband shot her a sulky look and walked out the front door with the cases. She turned back to Hermione with a catlike grin. "I knew you had a new boyfriend from the moment you came home for Christmas. He owes me twenty quid, since I won the bet - that's why he's so grumpy."

"You two made a twenty pound bet over whether I had a boyfriend or not?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, why not?" she asked airily. "Have a good New Years, enjoy the free house. We'll see you soon."

And with that, they were gone, their car puttering off into the silent night.

Malfoy and her stood for a moment in the kitchen, eyeing each other. She debated whether to bring up their sudden declaration of a relationship, then decided against it. His tendency, when cornered, was to make snarky comments or pout childishly. Besides, it was rather a lot to jump from "we're fake boyfriend and girlfriend" to "hi Mum and Dad I've brought home my new boyfriend who used to be my worst enemy and who hated our kind for years."

He seemed to want to set it aside, too, as he turned around and began to unpack the groceries they'd left on the counter.

"Chardonnay, Haribo gold bears, and, of course, the ever-delicious prawn-flavoured Pot Noodle, plus a couple of bad DVD's." She winked. "I'm introducing you to the height of Muggle culture tonight, Malfoy. Get ready."

He looked unconvinced, but took the snacks down to the sofa as she commanded. She joined a moment later with the Pot Noodles, nestled into his side, and they turned on the telly.

* * *

After an hour, Hermione stopped paying attention to the film. It was rather long.

After two hours, Judy Garland's songs were nearly driving Hermione mad - or rather, pretending to pay attention to The Wizard of Oz for two hours while trying to elicit _some_ sort of reaction out of Malfoy was driving her mad.

She had lay across the sofa, nestling her head against his arm and chest. She had changed into what looked like a rather sexy pair of pink cotton pyjamas - shorts and a singlet with matching gingham trim. At one point, she'd even slid one arm around his back.

He hadn't reacted a bit. No, instead, he kept over-analyzing that damned film.

"Really, do you lot think that dark witches have green skin? I mean, that's a dead giveaway, isn't it? How would you plot and plan if your skin colour broadcasts your evilness to everyone," he said, "it's a bit racist too, isn't it?"

"It's an old children's film, Malfoy."

"I know, but it's these Muggle ideas. They're so bizarre. And look at the good witch - look at that pink mess she's wearing. No self-respecting witch would wear that."

"Oh, I don't know." Hermione yawned. "It looks a bit like a Narcissa Malfoy special, if you ask me."

He turned to her with an expression of feigned chagrin - which promptly melted away. She realized that he had not actually _looked_ her way until now.

And he clearly enjoyed what he saw. His gray eyes devoured her, sliding slowly along her long, tanned legs; up to the little bow gracing the waist of the short-shorts; up over the tight singlet, worn unabashedly without a bra. It was there, at her full chest, where the gaze lingered. She could see his face suffuse with pink and his breaths come short and raspy as he caught the shadow of her nipples.

Malfoy made no efforts to hide his lust, and even Hermione could tell that he wanted her.

He shifted around, wrapping his hands around her waist, pulling her between his legs, so she now sat in his lap. Warm fingers began to trace circles on her neck, and she was reminded, suddenly, of that fleetingly sensual moment in the jewellery shop when he did the same to her hip. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure.

"Do you like that?" he purred.

She could only nod weakly. His hands pressed harder, sweeping over her cotton-covered shoulder blades, thumbs working deep into a knotted muscle. They slipped down to the small of her back, and after a moment's hesitation, crept under the shirt and directly against hot skin, his fingers tracing up her spine and down and ghosting over her hips.

"Your skin is beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?"

She shook her head no and let out a soft moan as he hit a spot that, until seconds before, she had only recognized as ticklish. "God you're good at this."

"I have my talents in certain areas," he replied. "Here you thought my only skill was stacking empty pint glasses into castles."

She whimpered as he began to trace the edges of her ribcage, just a few taunting inches from her breasts. It took a herculanean effort to croak out, "Next semester, more time on massages, less on empty glasses."

He slowed his hands and she trembled with anticipation. Her vaunted common sense had vanished, leaving only one thought in her mind - that she wanted him, even if that meant having sex with Malfoy right here on her parents' sofa. She could feel him, hard and ready and pressing into her back. She was certain, absolutely certain, that he would go further. She could barely stand to wait.

But he didn't. He slowly removed his hands and gently pushed her off his lap. She bit her lip to keep from wailing with frustration.

His voice finally came out a croak. "Neither of us are watching the movie. We should probably get some sleep. It's nearly four in the morning."

"Malfoy?" she began, feeling utterly confused.

He clasped her hand, but his eyes refused to meet hers. His expression, if she could name it, looked embarrassed. "Good-night, Granger. I... I'll see you in the morning. I'll just stay here tonight... on the sofa..."

Hermione felt as if she'd been slapped as she stumbled up the stairs. As much as she tried to make sense of it, his behaviour was incomprehensible. _Why did he reject me? _She suddenly felt humiliated, and lay awake for the next hour, wondering what had gone wrong.

* * *

**AN:** I know, I never update. See, my problem is always with the love scenes. I've rewritten Chapter 22 at least four times, debating - should I make it dirty? Clean? Somewhere in between? Anyhow, I'm sure I'll work it out. Reviews are lovely, but as usual, completely not a requirement.


	21. Chapter 21

Harry woke well after ten in the morning, but was one of the first to rise.

Ginny still snored soundly beside him; when he padded downstairs, he spotted Dean, Fleur, Bill and Ron sprawled over the furniture. Plastic cups, paper plates, and crumbs covered the coffee tables. Harry stared for a minute, trying to figure out what was wrong with the scene.

And then it hit him - Hermione was gone. He frowned and glanced around. Her gifts were gone; her coat no longer hung on the hook; there was an empty space on the rack where her boots had been.

Harry walked over to Ron and shook him awake.

"Go away, Mum," Ron mumbled, "still sleeping."

"Wake up, Ron," Harry said. "Did you see Hermione go?"

"Mmm-hmm," he nodded weakly, "last night."

"Last night? It was freezing rain and you let her go?"

He grunted in disdain. "Malfoy met her at the door."

Harry frowned. "Malfoy? Came here? Last night in the snow?"

Ron's eyes finally opened, and he glowered at his best friend. "Yes, Harry, Draco Malfoy came and picked Hermione up here after the party. It's really not that confusing... they're dating, much as that fact revolts me. Now, can I go back to sleep?"

"No, you can't. We've got to see where Malfoy's gone with her."

Ron rolled his eyes, pulled the blanket up to his chin and shook his head. "You're going bonkers and I'm not having anything to do with this weird, Malfoy-stalking project. I'm going back to sleep."

* * *

Harry stared at Hermione's front doorstep.

Blaise Zabini, in full traditional robes, stood at the front door, examining the handle with a puzzled expression. He grabbed it and pushed, to no avail.

The juxtaposition was bizarre.

A car passed by. A teenage boy yelled out the window, "Get back to the Marilyn Manson concert, you freak!"

It was only when Zabinii turned to look that he noticed Harry.

"What're you doing here, Potter?"

"I should ask you the same."

Zabini frowned but didn't respond. He went back to examining the door-frame. He experimentally pressed his finger to the peep-hole.

"There's a buzzer to the right, Zabini."

Zabini looked confused. Harry rolled his eyes, reached around, and pushed the door-bell. Through the frosted-glass window, Harry could see a silhouette approach. The latch noisily slid back, and the door swung open to reveal Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy stood in the doorway, dressed in a pair of black pants and a loose, long-sleeved white undershirt, his feet bare. He looked utterly comfortable; in one hand he held a piece of jam-smeared toast; through the open doorway, Harry spotted a cup of tea sitting on the table next to Malfoy's wand and a silver hair clasp.

"Zabini, what the fuck are you doing here?" He scowled. "Hell, what are you two doing here _together_?"

"Aren't you going to let us in?" Zabini asked. "Some muggle was very threatening to me out there."

Harry rolled his eyes, but Malfoy dutifully stepped aside and let them both inside.

"Keep it down. She's still asleep." Malfoy sat back down at the table. "Tea? The pot's full, I just made it."

"You know how to make tea?" Zabini asked incredulously. "Without a house-elf's help?"

Draco smirked. "Cups are above the sink. Milk's still on the counter - I couldn't find any sugar."

Harry's unsettled feeling dissipated a little - he knew about the sugar, which meant he still knew more than Malfoy did. "The Grangers don't use sugar. Her parents are dentists... that's a doctor of the..."

"Teeth, yes, I know, Potter. Granger's chided me enough times about my sweets intake," Malfoy interrupted.

And once again, Harry felt off-kilter. How and when had Malfoy become so intimate with Hermione? How had he learned all this minutiae about her? Why was he here, in her house, at eight thirty in the morning, brewing tea, using her toaster, rifling through her dish-cupboards?

"Back to my original question, Potter," Malfoy said as he sat down at the dining table. "Why are you two here together?"

"We're not. It's just coincidence." Zabini shot a distasteful glance at Potter. "I came because I received an owl at two a.m. last night from your mother, and one at six a.m. from your father."

Malfoy groaned. "Mother never stops, does she?"

"She said, and I quote, 'Drakie has left his St. Mungo's medal in the owl-shed and I cannot find him anywhere. Please, Blaise, tell me he's safe and sound with you!' I lied for you, by the way, since I knew you and Granger were probably having another sleepover."

Harry's fists balled at the thought of Hermione and Malfoy having "sleepovers". Why had Hermione lied about the relationship? Was Malfoy just toying with her? _  
_

He felt vaguely as if Hermione's honour was at stake, but couldn't quite pinpoint _why_.

He tried to pay attention to Malfoy and Zabini's continuing conversation.

Malfoy cringed. "What did my father's note say?"

Blaise smirked. "'Tell my son to get up, take some hangover potion, and get home immediately. Madam Malfoy is quite concerned'. He'd be the one who was quite concerned if he knew where you _really_ were."

"I'm an adult. What a joke." He sighed. "I owe you one, Blaise. Thanks."

All three men went quiet for a moment as they heard a door opening upstairs. Harry peered around the corner, but didn't see Hermione - though what he _did _see startled him. A pile of blankets and pillows lay rumpled on the sitting room sofa. Malfoy's outer robes lay neatly folded on the coffee table, next to a cup of water and a book on Margaret Thatcher.

Malfoy had slept on the sofa. Harry looked over at Malfoy, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was playing at. Malfoy's expression remained impassive... or perhaps simply hung over.

Blaise sat down next to Draco with his own cup of tea. "You look like shit, Malfoy."

"You see how good you look after sleeping on that Ikea monstrosity," he muttered. "Besides, I had a horrible night. I feel like shit."

"Something happen with you and..." Zabini looked Harry's way and stopped mid-sentence.

"Hey, Potter," Malfoy said irritably, "Granger's awake now, so no need for you to hang about. Zabini and I would actually prefer if you fucked off for a bit."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "All right, I'll give you boys some private time. But only because I came to talk to Hermione, and would prefer _not_ to see or hear you, Malfoy."

He stomped upstairs, leaving Blaise and Draco alone in the tiny Muggle kitchen.

"So." Zabini's eyebrow crooked. "Trouble?"

Draco sighed. "It's a bit pathetic, really."

"Ooh, really?" Zabini said, looking even more interested.

Draco's eyes flickered to the staircase, then back to his teacup. "We came back here last night after Hermione's party. She wanted to, you see. We had some food, and some wine, and we were watching a film..."

"Oh, Lord, you shagged her and now you're trying to find some way to wriggle out." Blaise rolled his eyes. "I'm not helping you with that one, mate..."

"No!" Malfoy interrupted. "Absolutely not!"

Zabini's eyebrows raised even higher. Malfoy's unequivocal response wasn't what Zabini expected. At all.

"That's the problem, see? Granger... she looked incredible last night - she had on this tight, sheer pink thing with these bows, hell, she might've even tempted _you_ - and it was like I lost all common sense. I was _this close _to closing the deal. And without even thinking about it, I started into my usual modus operandi - the back rubs, the bland compliments..."

He stared queasily into his cup. Zabini said nothing.

"I suddenly realized what I was doing. I mean, for fuck's sake, it's _Granger_. I don't want to do that to her - some crap one-night stand on a sofa after she drank too much with someone she knows as a friend."

Zabini eyed Malfoy. "So?"

"So what? I managed to stop myself before I completely gutted our friendship." He rubbed his face tiredly. "How do I manage to fuck things up so often? She's probably upstairs, telling Potter what a total unrestrained arsehole I am."

Zabini idly stirred his tea. "I somehow doubt that, Draco." He examined Draco's face closely. "_Do_ you want to date her? _Sleep_ with her?"

"It's not an option," Malfoy said emotionlessly. "We're people on two completely different trajectories."

"That's not what I asked."

Malfoy stared into his tea for a long minute before answering quietly. "I don't want to risk losing her."

Zabini opened his mouth to retort, but seemed to think better of it. They sat in silence until Potter returned.

* * *

Harry knocked on the door.

"I'm getting dressed, Malfoy, don't you dare come in."

"Hermione, it's me. I came to see why you left the party so early."

"Harry?" She paused. "Come in, come in."

Harry cracked open the door tentatively. Not that he hadn't seen Hermione disrobed - after all, they'd been alone in that forest for ages - but given the choice, he'd rather not watch her getting changed.

She was wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe, lounging on her bed. He gave her a questioning look.

"I just didn't want to see Malfoy."

"Trouble in paradise?" Harry asked snidely. "Sorry, sorry, I'll try to tone it down. By the way, Zabini came to check up on Malfoy. He's downstairs."

She frowned. "Malfoy was bored last night, so we got together and watched a film here, ate some ramen noodles and drank some chardonnay."

"Malfoy ate instant noodles?" Harry shook his head. "Never mind. Nothing surprises me with him anymore. Anyhow, what happened? I thought you two were like peas in a pod nowadays. I mean, I came in and he'd been using the muggle tea-kettle and the toaster, but you don't want to see him."

She blushed. "I thought... I thought he was interested in me. And he made it clear that he wasn't."

Harry frowned. "Are you sure? Malfoy seems pretty... uh... easily interested."

"That's what makes it even worse. Ugh, I feel hideous."

She curled up on the blanket. Harry sat on the edge of the bed and reached out for her hand.

"Oh, Hermione, don't say that. Why don't we go out? Me, you, Ron, Ginny - we'll go for dinner and drinks at that little martini bar Ginny likes. I know it'll make you feel better."

She nodded tentatively. "Okay. Yeah."

"I'll pick you up at six." He gave her a peck on the cheek. "Don't let that git bother you. There are plenty of guys who'd do anything to have you."

She nodded again, but it didn't have much fire. Harry sighed, and shut the door softly as he left. What could Malfoy have done to bother Hermione so much? Why did Malfoy behave as if he wanted Hermione one moment, then change his tune the next?

It was all bizarre - Malfoy's behaviour, Hermione's. As he padded downstairs, he overheard the conversation between Malfoy and Zabini. He pressed himself to the wall and eavesdropped on them.

"Do you want to date her?" Zabini asked solemnly.

Malfoy's voice was flat. "It's not an option. We're people on two completely different trajectories."

"That's not what I asked."

Malfoy took what seemed like minutes to reply, and when he did, Harry was startled by the answer.

"I don't want to risk losing her."

* * *

When Hermione finally went downstairs, both Blaise and Malfoy sat in her sitting room, watching Big Brother.

"Don't you boys have somewhere to go?"

"We wondered if you wanted to go for a drink," Malfoy said.

"I'm already going out with Gin, Harry and Ron."

"Oh." Malfoy looked disappointed. "Well, I guess I'll see you on New Years then. C'mon, Blaise."

"I'll catch up to you in a minute, I just need to tie my shoes."

Draco shrugged and stepped out the front door. Once the door shut, Blaise put a hand on Hermione's shoulder and smiled reassuringly at her.

"Hermione, whenever Malfoy behaves badly, remind yourself that he's juvenile and insecure, all right?" He winked. "Trust me. I've been one of his best friends for seven years. He can be really dumb."

Without letting her respond, he slid into his shoes and slipped out the front door. Hermione just stood in the kitchen, wondering what he could possibly have meant.

* * *

**AN**: Up next... a visit to Malfoy Manor.


	22. Chapter 22

_Breathe in,_ Hermione mentally told herself_, breathe out, calm, cool, collected. _

Easier said than done. The sight of Malfoy Manor's yew hedges and iron gate sent chills through her spine. The shriek of a peacock made her jump. The windows were dark, and were it not for the single lamp lit over the door, the house would have seemed shuttered for the season.

When she approached the gate, it morphed into an enormous face.

"State your purpose here!"

"I'm Hermione Granger. I have an invite..."

"You're early."

She jumped at the sound of Draco's voice. When she turned around to face him, he stood a few feet down the path. His black shoe scuffed at the gravel. He shot her a small smile.

"You're wearing the pearls."

She touched her ears self-consciously. "Is it too much? I had no idea what to wear, so I just picked what I usually keep for nicer Ministry functions, but I also have a couple of other dresses in my handbag - shrank of course - if this isn't..."

"You look beautiful, Granger."

His eyes locked with hers for a moment, and Hermione's heartbeat thudded in her ears. The sound of peacocks, the ominous clouds, all of it melted away, and all she wanted was to wrap her arms around him again.

Still smarting from her last encounter with him, she resisted the temptation.

Malfoy snapped out of the reverie first. He walked forward, tucked her arm under his, and led her to the front of the gate. His fingers formed a complicated gesture, and he purposefully pulled Hermione forward. She cringed, waiting to hit the iron bars.

But they dissolved like smoke as she crossed through them.

"Next time, Granger, come on time," he said.

"Where did you have to go so urgently at eleven in the morning?" She huffed. "Couldn't you have been here five minutes early?"

He looked at her earnestly. "Topping up the liquor supplies, my sweet. We'll need it."

Her stomach flip-flopped at the endearment. But the warm feelings vanished as they stood in front of the enormous iron door and knocked three times.

* * *

Tinky the house-elf announced their presence.

"Mistress, Master, I introduce young Master and Merhione Glanger."

"Hermione Granger," Narcissa corrected sternly. "You can go now, and ensure we're brought some tea."

"Whiskey," Lucius muttered, "from my good cabinet."

"Lucius..." Narcissa's voice held a warning.

Hermione wasn't sure to walk into this mild argument, or to stay put in the hallway until the bickering was over. She glanced over at Malfoy, and he understood the unspoken question.

"They're always like this. All that arguing's a sign of love."

"_Arguing_ is a sign of love?" Hermione whispered incredulously.

He raised a golden eyebrow. "Obviously."

She didn't have a chance to reflect on that, because he reached for her hand and sauntered into the sitting room.

"Mother, Father. This is Granger." Draco hesitated. "As you know."

"Oh, don't be _vulgar_, Darling. This isn't one of your Quidditch team-mates. Come, sit down, Miss Granger. Let us chat."

Hermione could not move. At the sight of Lucius Malfoy, sitting in a pink hibiscus-print armchair, Hermione skidded to a halt and stared. The sight of him, his hair perfectly coiffed, his eyes still ice-cold, set panic racing through her body. Narcissa realized what had caused her reaction, and turned to her husband.

"Lucius, why don't you find a house-elf and ensure they've gotten some tea-sandwiches ready... oh, and Miss Granger's room, of course."

"Narcissa, you already..."

"Lucius, please." It was not a request.

Lucius narrowed his eyes first at his wife, then at his son. When he turned to Hermione, he pasted a blank look on his face. But she realized something had caught his attention. His eyes widened, and he stared at her head for a minute before jumping up from his seat.

"Draco. Follow me."

"I think I'll stay here, Father..."

"Now." Lucius's voice was quiet and deadly. "Leave them to their gossip."

Draco looked torn, and gave Hermione a questioning look. She nodded, just a dip of her head; she had no concern about Narcissa Malfoy. Draco looked relieved, and followed his father out.

"Do you like the new decor?" Narcissa asked hesitantly. "I've always been partial to pink. And I think it really cheers up the place a bit."

"Very different," Hermione said seriously. "Erm... it's striking. Reflects your personality."

"I knew you'd like it. Lucius said it looked like a troll caught the stomach flu and vomited pepto-bismol everywhere." She nodded slowly. "Pepto-bismol is that pink potion that St. Mungo's prescribes, have you ever heard of it?

"Erm... yeah."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Narcissa spoke again.

"Do you like flower arranging, Miss Granger?" Narcissa reached for a large wicker basket filled with glue, glitter, and what looked like dead peonies. "What about scrapbooking?"

"I've never really tried it..." Hermione replied hesitantly.

"Oh, you'll love it." Narcissa slid a jar of glitter glue across the table. "It's so wonderful to have a girl around, for a change."

A tray of biscuits and tea appeared, and Hermione shoved one into her mouth to forcibly prevent herself from commenting. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Draco could tell that something had angered his father. Why else would Father have retreated to his study? Why else would he just sit there, staring at Draco with narrowed eyes?

"Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Draco mentally recited a list possible faux pas - there hadn't been any embarrassing photos lately, no poorly-chosen girlfriends (save Granger, he supposed), and he was pretty sure that Father didn't know about the sleepover at the Muggle house. He really was at a loss. He tried the most likely bet.

"Erm, I'm sorry I drank so much at the pub last week, Father..."

At his father's withering glance, Draco went quiet.

"About four weeks ago, I noted a charge of forty nine galleons to my account at Warbury's Goldsmiths, Draco. Since you gave your mother only a dog and some biscuits for Christmas, I wondered what you could have bought." His voice went deadly quiet. "It seems the question's been answered for me. Hasn't it, Draco? Now, tell me, what was the girl wearing that would concern me?"

He felt his face flush. The pearls. Fuck. He hadn't really thought through his father's reaction on that one. Bad move.

"A... set of pret-a-porter knockoff robes...?"

"Oh, shut up, boy. You know what I meant. You bought the girl pearls. Are you really going to suggest to me that it was simply coincidence?"

Draco thought it best to stay silent. When he'd bought the jewellery for her, _he'd_ known the significance of it. He'd even considered it romantic that _he_ knew the significance of the gem, whereas _Hermione_ never would.

"That you just _happened_ to buy your supposedly fake girlfriend the gemstone that our family has used as a token of courtship for the past five hundred years?" Lucius stood up, and Draco mentally noted that they now stood the same height. "Every pureblood in a five mile radius will take one look at that girl and instantly know you have serious intentions toward her. What in God's name were you _thinking_?"

_She's pretty. She's fun. She's smart. She's funny. She gets along with my friends. She's one of my best friends. We can talk all night and not get bored. She'll take care of me when I'm drunk or sick or both. I'll do the same for her. I want to make her happy. I wanted her to have something that showed I cared.  
_

He said none of these things, knowing the reaction that it would elicit.

"I like her," he said simply.

"It'll be near-impossible to contract a proper marriage after this." Lucius sat back down in his desk chair, and took a swig of whiskey. "Go. We'll continue this discussion when I am less... displeased."

As he walked away, Draco mused that _not_ being able to contract a "proper marriage" didn't sound like such a bad thing.

* * *

As Draco approached his mother's sitting room, he heard feminine laughter. He caught sight of them through the open door. The sight made him stop dead in his tracks and watch. His chest bloomed with an unfamiliar warmth.

Hermione and his mother sat across from one another, sipping from delicate teacups and laughing at a shared joke. Mister Fluffykin lay at their feet. In their neatly pleated robes, prettily coiffed hair, and tasteful jewelry, they both looked like they belonged here. They both looked like model Malfoy wives.

He realized where his thoughts had wandered - Hermione as a Malfoy wife. And yet... yet... he didn't recoil at the thought. Watching Hermione cross her legs delicately and arrange a dead peony in a vase, he felt oddly comfortable with the idea. More comfortable than he'd ever been with Pansy, or any of the other girls his parents had hoped for.

His mother caught sight of him. Narcissa's eyes flickered to Hermione, then back to her son. She shot him a knowing smile.

Draco felt exposed. His mother, when not ensconced in silly plans, could read him like a book. He turned to flee, but Hermione caught sight of him.

"Malfoy!" she called out. "Where are you going?"

"Don't leave, Darling, join us," Narcissa added. "Miss Granger and I were just making some lovely peony arrangements."

When he nodded and walked into the room, Hermione broke into a happy grin. It took all his effort not to plop down beside her and nuzzle her shoulder.

Narcissa smiled at him with a hint of amusement. "I've got to powder my nose. I'm sure you can stay with Miss Granger for a few minutes."

She swirled out in a rustle of crinoline skirts. Hermione groaned and swatted at his arm, all semblance of ladylike behaviour gone. Draco laughed and shoved her back playfully.

"Malfoy, you've got to save me." Hermione clutched at his arm. "Save me from the dead flowers, glitter glue, and silver spray paint. I swear, I'll buy you a whole pitcher of beer next time we go out if you extricate me from this... do-it-yourself nightmare."

"Mother's been waiting for a daughter in law for twenty years, Granger. How could I possibly deflate her dreams?" He paused. "Has she shown you how to make upcycled quilts yet?"

The look of abject horror on Granger's face made him laugh. "All right, Granger, I'll help you out yet again."

She gave an exaggerated simper and lay her head on his shoulder. "My hero."

Despite her sarcasm, she didn't stop using him as a pillow. And he felt utterly triumphant when he slid his arm around her back, and she simply leaned in even more closely.

* * *

**AN: **I split up the chapter at Malfoy Manor; nobody wants to read six-thousand-word megachapter. Also, I wanted to say... WOW WOOT WOOT I have over 200 reviews! That's AMAZING! You guys are so super awesome!


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione followed Narcissa down a seemingly-endless hallway. Portraits lined the dark, wood-panelled walls, and Narcissa stopped at each one for an explanation.

Thankfully, she had placed a silencing charm on them, and each platinum-tressed ancestor could simply glare at Hermione.

"And this is Draco's great-great-great-great grandmother Cordelia, nee Yaxley, who invented the fingernail-strengthening salve, and next to that is her eldest daughter, Drusia. Drusia married into the Bulstrode family and is Millicent's great-great grandmother."

Draco followed along behind, a proud smile on his pointy face. He nodded when his mother mentioned the accomplishments of his ancestors.

Hermione tried not to yawn.

"You said you'd save me from the quilting and scrapbooking. This isn't what I had in mind," she said.

Draco's eyes widened, and he actually seemed startled by her comment, "You're not interested in my family history?"

He was serious, she realized. Worried about hurting his feelings, she backpedaled.

"It's certainly... _different_," she replied. "Who knew you were the fourth cousin once removed to Millicent."

Malfoy cringed. "We haven't gotten to the eighteen hundreds yet, Granger. I'm closer than fourth cousin. First, actually, once removed. I'm even a fourth cousin to Weasel and Weaselette, much as it pains me to admit that bit of consanguinity."

Narcissa gestured to the next scowling blonde, oblivious to Hermione and Draco's ongoing conversation. "And here is Drusia's eldest brother, Aurelius Malfoy the Second, who created several modern hair smoothing serums. And next to that is Tiberius Malfoy, the creator of the hunger-dulling potion..."

"The Malfoys have always been known for excellence in potions." Draco lowered his voice so that only Hermione could hear, and added, "It's genetic. That's why_ I _always got top marks in Potions class."

"Oh, do shut up. You know perfectly well that Snape just favoured you."

"Still sore, eh, Granger?" he elbowed her playfully and grinned. "You never should've taught me all that muggle heredity stuff. Now I _know _that I'm going to pass on genes for potions brilliance."

"Pity your spawn will be so deficient in the rest of Hogwarts' curriculum," she replied tartly.

"I have an easy fix for that, Granger."

"What's that, bribe all of the future little Malfoy's professors?"

"No." His laughter melted into a wry smile, and his eyes locked onto hers. "I'll have to find a wife who's brilliant at everything else."

She stopped. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears - certainly he wasn't suggesting - no, obviously not. Hell, the two of them couldn't even quite decide _what_ sort of relationship they were in. Friendship? Dating? Some kind of bizarre couple where the boyfriend isn't interested in sleeping with his girlfriend whatsoever?

His brow furrowed. "Are you... okay?"

She realized she'd just stopped walking and had stood gawping at Draco for a good thirty seconds. Even Narcissa had stopped droning on about the seventeenth century Malfoys and was now looking at her with open concern.

"I'm fine, sorry, I just got a bit distracted for a moment," she said. "Let's keep going."

Narcissa seemed satisfied that Hermione was all right, and continued again. "And this is Tiberius Malfoy's wife, Janet nee Prewett..."

Hermione smiled at the way the painted pearls shone in contrast against Janet Prewett Malfoy's red hair; it reminded her of Ginny at the Christmas party, with the pearl earrings held up to her face.

"The Malfoy women seem to favour pearls in all of these portraits," she noted idly, "or maybe the men do."

She caught Draco and his mother exchanging a nuanced glance. She didn't understand it, but she did understand that _something_ had caused Draco's cheeks to redden and his mother to smile.

"Only the women coming in, not the daughters," Narcissa slowly replied, watching Hermione's face intently. After a moment, she broke her gaze, and said, "Come along, Miss Granger. Now we move onto the nineteenth century."

* * *

Narcissa watched her son from a second-floor gallery. Draco was showing Hermione the contents of the library. Hermione examined the spines of the cracked old books, examining a few closely. Draco sat down at the old pianoforte and began playing a sonata. Narcissa's smile was bittersweet, thinking back to Draco's first piano lessons as a wriggly, easily-distracted five year old. Hermione walked up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders; he smiled and continued to play.

"You look unhappy."

She turned; Lucius was standing a few metres behind her, silhouetted in the doorway.

"Just thinking how fast he's grown up," she replied quietly. "My little boy will soon be married and having children of his own."

Lucius scoffed. "He'll tire of her quickly enough and look for a new plaything. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest."

"I don't think so, Lucius." She looked back down and tried not to laugh as Hermione tapped out an ear-wrenching version of Chopsticks. "They aren't sleeping together."

"I doubt that." Lucius looked uncertain, and paused before asking. "How do you know?"

Narcissa laughed softly. "He told me the last time I talked about putting a fertility potion in her tea."

"That doesn't make any sense," he muttered. "He's a red-blooded twenty year old man. He's a Malfoy, for God's sake."

"Oh, Lucius. It makes perfect sense." Narcissa's bittersweet smile returned as she watched Draco reach out for Hermione's hand. "He's in love with her."

* * *

Hermione had not enjoyed dinner; it had been awkward and stilted. The food had been boiled to gray mush. Narcissa had banned alcohol from the table. Pudding was oranges, supposedly due to Narcissa's diet and Lucius's impending diabetes. Lucius had spent the hour glowering at Hermione over his waterglass. Mr. Fluffykin yapped at Hermione's feet for scraps. Draco and Narcissa had made herculanean efforts at chitchat, discussing the lovely gardens and owl-sheds and balconies at the Manor.

It was a blessing when Lucius finally stood, grunted out, "good night," and shuffled out of the room.

Narcissa finished her orange, smiled, and stood. "You know your father, he's early to bed... I'll excuse myself for the night. It's been a lovely day, Hermione. I'll see you in the morning." She turned and kissed Draco on the head, and dropped her voice. "Enjoy yourself tonight. There's my secret cache of creme de violette in the bread cupboard, if you'd like a treat."

She wandered out, leaving Hermione and Draco sitting alone in the cavernous dining room. Hermione suddenly felt acutely aware of Draco's presence; she felt awkward, and unsure what to say or do next.

"Do you want to walk around the balcony outside?"

The sky was tinged pink, and lent a golden glow to the bare ash trees planted around the manor. The vast balcony encircled the building, and Draco cast a warming charm around the two of them. They walked languidly, watching as the sun slowly set and the stars began to prick the sky.

"You were amazing today," Draco said. "You were far better than the last girlfriend I brought home."

"Who was that lucky lady?"

He looked puzzled. "Pansy, of course."

"Pansy? You haven't brought a girl home since you were seventeen?"

"There wasn't anyone else worth it," he replied nonchalantly.

"Somehow, I don't see Pansy doing scrapbooking or gluing glitter onto a dead peony." Hermione paused. "Hell, I can't see her drinking Creme De Violette and eating boiled mutton while a Pomeranian bites her ankles."

He laughed and enmeshed his long fingers with hers. "And that, my darling, is why you're still here, and Pansy is long gone. Don't laugh, but you're similar to her, in a lot of ways - I always liked a smart woman who can challenge me. She, however, became grating."

"I could easily become grating, Draco," she said wryly. "I leave dirty cups lying about. I vote Labour. I talk to my cat in a baby voice."

"Those things are charming, not grating," he said matter-of-factly. "Besides, you're much more fun. Who else would snog me at a Ministry event to piss off an ex boyfriend? Or help me annoy a racist matchmaker? Or eat chips and beer with me to get over the holiday blues?"

"We do have fun, don't we?" She smiled up at him happily. Snowflakes began to fall, and caught in her long, dark eyelashes.

He couldn't tear his eyes from her face. The moment was just perfect. She was stunning; moreover, _he_ had elicited the joy that had lit up her face. His hand moved to cup her cheek, and he delicately brushed away the caught snowflakes with his thumb. He idly mused on how smooth her cheeks were - like a porcelain doll's - and how her flaming skin instantly melted the snowflakes that fell upon it. She smelled edible - like the strawberries and the oranges she'd peeled at dinner.

He spoke involuntarily. "You're so beautiful."

A pained look flickered, almost imperceptibly, through her eyes.

"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Draco."

He slid his hands over her hips. "It's not nothing, tell me. I've upset you somehow."

She swallowed. Her words came haltingly.

"How beautiful can I be if you don't want me?"

He stared at her as if she were insane. Because, clearly, she was.

"Are you fucking joking?" he finally blurted out. "I've wanted to shag you senseless for the past five months. Do you know how many fantasies I've had with you as the star? In that little red dress - in that fucking delicious little pink thing you were wearing two weeks ago - in your teaching robes..."

"But you haven't made a move _once_, Draco! Not once!"

"I'm not going to take advantage of you when you've drank too much, and end up with some pathetic shag on a sofa... or worse. You'd end up hating me." He stared upward at the moon. "You deserved better, Hermione."

She didn't respond at first, and the silence was deafening. After a moment, she slid her arms around his waist, and pulled their bodies tightly together. The warming charm was beginning to fade now, but she felt burning-hot against him. When he finally looked down, she was smiling up at him for some inexplicable reason.

"You called me by my first name," she explained softly. "Say it again."

"Hermione." She squeezed him tighter, and he continued. "Can I kiss you, Hermione?"

Her arms snaked around his neck. This wasn't like before, where there was some worry about ulterior motives; where he felt uncertainty whether she wanted _him_ or was playing her part. His hands yanked her hips forward, and then their lips entangled. She tasted like oranges and tea, and her tongue slid between his teeth and duelled with his. She moaned, and in response, he felt his hardness jump against her belly. He slid one hand into her mane of hair, and the other down to her plump arse and he ground her breasts against his chest.

When he broke away, she looked confused, but his next words quickly dismissed her fears.

"Hermione," he said between ragged breaths, "Can I take you to bed?"

She nodded.

* * *

**AN: **I know it's quite a long time since an update. I disliked my first version and rewrote it. Thank you for waiting patiently! Now I have to decide if I should I post my somewhat-explicit next scene, or keep the story a bit more tame...


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Very Important Note**

**This is an adult scene. **

**In the immortal words of Father Ted and Father Dougal, "Careful Now." **

**Don't you read this if A) you aren't an adult, or B) you're kind-of-squicked-out by graphic descriptions of people getting it on. **

**I mean it! Just hit the back button right now if you fall into category A or B. I've written it so you won't miss anything if you skip past Chapter 24 and onto Chapter 25 (once I upload it).  
**

**Otherwise, read on. **

* * *

Draco's room was not what she expected. It was the room of an eleven year old boy, frozen since Draco left for Hogwarts. Quidditch posters hung on the walls. _Auror: Crime Scene Investigator _action figures sat on a shelf, next to books with titles like _The Fun World of Arithmancy _and _Tinky Teaches Divination_. The walls were painted bright green, and on the twin bed was a snitch-printed coverlet. Awards from childrens' flying and potions competitions sat on the night table.

"We can go to one of the guest rooms, if you want..." Draco's face was aflame.

"No, no." She smiled reassuringly. "It's... sweet."

"I feel like you'd be more honest if you were drunk, Granger." He seemed to realize his slip. "_Hermione_."

The door clicked shut behind them. Hermione expected to feel frightened, but she didn't. She realized, starkly, that she trusted him completely. Her heart thudded in her chest, and a thread of nervousness wound through her, but it was nothing more than anticipation. She welcomed it.

Draco touched the small of her back, and she jumped.

"Ah... Hermione. We don't have to..."

She grinned up at him. "Oh, come _on_, Draco. Don't disappoint me."

He smiled wryly, but she could sense his anxiety. It was odd, seeing Draco shifting from foot to foot, like a little boy before his first Quidditch game.

She slid her arms around his waist. He let out a soft, contented sigh.

"Hermione..."

His head leaned down to hers; she turned her face up to meet his. Their lips met, his thin and cool, hers full and hot. Their teeth grazed one another as two mouths parted. Her hands slid around his neck, and his clamped around her waist. He ground his body into hers - hard chest, hard stomach, hard-on.

"I want you, Draco," she broke away breathlessly. "Please?."

"Anything you want, beautiful."

His voice sounded desperate, breathless. She felt fingers at the top of her back. Hot, wet mouth fastened to her shoulder, hot and moist, distracting her as the buttons on her spine were deftly unfastened.

Suddenly, her gown dropped away, leaving her open and vulnerable in a pair of violet-lace panties and a bra.

"Fuck, Hermione. I want you so badly... I've wanted you for months..."

And Draco's mouth suddenly pounced on hers once again. His wool robes scratched at the miles of white skin he'd exposed.

"Why are you still dressed?" she mumbled through his kisses.

A rumbled, deep laugh was his only response. With a softly muttered spell, his robes vanished, and he wore only a pair of white, silky boxers. "Better?"

"Mmm."

His hands were at her breasts now, his fingers sliding beneath the lace, pinching at her nipples and eliciting a sharp gasp. He smirked, proud at the reaction, and the other hand slid beneath her knickers, pulling at the rosy bud.

She hissed out an unrestrained, "Fuck, yes."

Malfoy took that as an encouraging sign, and nudged her backward until her legs met the bed. Where, in her distracted, aroused state, she promptly fell onto her back.

"Perfect." Malfoy said.

He took a second to look down and admire her - Granger, splayed out across his bed, her cheeks red, hair haloed around her head, in just a pair of lacy knickers and bra, practically mewling for him.

It took all his resolve not to yank off the knickers and plow her right then and there. But he was a gentleman, even with a ranging hard-on, and would not ruin this almost perfect encounter by forgetting to ask nicely.

"Hermione?"

"Mmm?"

"You look so hot. I can't hold back much longer. Can I please fuck you?"

She nodded impatiently, and he was pleased at the enthusiasm. Her fingers pushed at her knickers, trying to to slide them away, but he batted away her hand.

"Patience is a virtue."

Even as he said it, he recognized the lie. His erection felt like it would soon split his trousers. He felt that overwhelming, animal urge to pounce, to pin her, to pound into her. How could he not with her splayed out in front of him, like some mythological offering to the gods.

She reached for his shoulders and pulled down from where he stood over her. With a bit of shifting, he knelt atop her, his warm thighs wrapped around her hips, only silk and lace a barrier between them. She let out a whimper as he unhooked her brassiere and latched his mouth to one nipple, then let out a long, gutteral moan as his fingers hooked into her knickers and dragged them down her legs, exposing everything. It was time; he was ready to take her.

She lay under him, open, legs split, knickers hanging off one ankle. Her hands dragged down his boxers - though he barely noticed until his swollen cock bounced free from the constraining fabrick

"Fuck, fuck, Hermione, you're so fucking sexy, fuck," he whispered, like a chant to himself.

He was heavy, lying on her; she could feel his sweaty skin, the head of his hard-on butting between her legs. The anticipation, the build up was too much. She needed relief, now.

"Please, please Draco."

And he did. His hand reached down, spreading the delicate lips of her pussy, exposing her completely. The head of his cock pressed against her. It was an unknown feeling, that intrusion, the pressure. It was painful, and she winced.

He drew back.

"Are you..."

"No..." She looked embarrassed. "Only once, though, and it wasn't like this..."

He nodded, vaguely remembering something about Weasley and a small dick. Pride swelled within him, knowing he not only was bigger, but also better than the competition. He kissed her hard on the mouth, and kept his cock firmly pressed against her. Her hands wrapped around his waist, encouraging him to move. His eyes fluttered shut, and, using her hips as leverage, he thrust forward.

Her first time had not been painful; it had been barely noticeable, and she had assumed that all sex was unmemorable and boring.

This was different. She felt Draco's cock breaching her; she felt the stretching and a vague ache as he sheathed himself. It wasn't comfortable at first, just tender. But then, as his cock finally bottomed out within her, his abdomen and thighs kissing hers, she felt a fluttering in her belly. He remained still.

"Are you all right?" he whispered. "Because I can't hold back... not for long."

She nodded, and he took that as a sign to move. The feeling of him exiting, then suddenly, shockingly, slamming back in made her gasp. But he took no notice of her gasp, and once again snapped back and thrust hard, as deep as he could go, into her body. He sped up, but did not let up on the force of his thrusts; she now understood, abruptly, how appropriate it was to use the word _banging_. He plowed her into the mattress, panting, his body slicked with sweat, his abdominal muscles visibly tensing as he continued to thrust hard. His animal groans reverberated through the room.

Something, as he moved, as his fingers tweaked her nipples, as his teeth nipped at her ears and neck, began to change within her. The fluttering in her belly caught fire, and as he slammed hard into her, she involuntarily let out a moan of pleasure. It was nothing like her first time; this sticky-sweet, animalistic, raw experience.

"Yes, Hermione, yes, take me, I'm yours..." Draco mumbled. "I want you."

And suddenly, without warning, it hit her - the feeling of her insides shot to warm, liquid honey; the feeling of hot, gushing wetness between her legs; all thought and sense vanishing, replaced only by white-hot pleasure. Her fingernails dug into his back, and she let out a scream as she came. His hands pinned her arms to the mattress as she squirmed and spasmed against him.

He continued to thrust into her through her spasms, muttering, "yes, yes," as she clenched around him. And it was only a few seconds later when he stiffened, his eyes growing round, his face contorting, his torso freezing; and she felt a flood of warmth deep within her. He let out a sharp and noisy shout, an incomprehensible sound of pure pleasure, then suddenly collapsed on top of her.

After a minute tangled in sticky, soft limbs, panting in tandem, Draco lifted himself up. He shot her an exhausted smile.

"Beautiful," he whispered, and kissed the edge of her mouth, "You know, I've wanted to fuck you for months. But I never imagined it would be even a tenth as amazing as it was."

He shifted at that point, so they both lay on their sides, him nestled around her. And a few minutes later, despite the sweat and the sticky remnants of their coupling, they fell asleep.


	25. Chapter 25

When Hermione awoke, Draco's legs were draped over hers, cutting off all blood supply to her legs. He was fast asleep – but still smirking, even while dreaming. Hermione found it adorable. It was yet another sign how far she had fallen.

Her stomach let out a traitorous growl, reminding her about how little she'd eaten at supper.

"Draco," she whispered.

"Mmm?"

"You're kind of pinning me."

"Mmm, yeah, pin me baby," he mumbled, "that's hot."

Hermione reached out and tried to shove his leg off. It was heavier than it looked, and he kept giggling in his sleep every time her hands brushed against his pale skin.

"Draco, really, I need to use the loo... and I'm really hungry."

He grunted. "Mmm... there are sweets in your room."

A tremor of uncertainty rippled through her. Was this a less than subtle hint that she should leave him? That, like all the other girls, he wanted her out of his room? His snide voice echoed in her head - "I never let the girls stay overnight. They might get... ideas. Romance. Weddings. Gold-digging. That sort of thing."

But no... not after what had happened last night. Not after their walk on the balcony. Not after he'd admitted wanting her for months. No, that old Draco was gone, she was fairly certain.

Finally, he slipped his legs off hers. He immediately went back to sleep. She wriggled her toes until the feeling in them returned, then rolled out of bed. As she did so, Draco spluttered back into consciousness for a moment.

"Don't forget the contraceptive."

She felt an inexplicable ache at that comment. Why? It wasn't as if she wanted to get pregnant, not in the least; but she didn't want to hear him mention it first thing after shagging. In that weirdly awkward, vulnerable period after a first shag, she wanted hugs, reassurances, and, if she was really feeling optimistic, a declaration of love.

As he began to snore again, she padded out the door. After a quick trip to the loo, she tiptoed downstairs, hoping to find a house-elf willing to procure a snack.  
Instead, she accidentally wandered into the Malfoy gallery again, each portrait glowering down at her.

"Aren't you worried, Miss Granger, walking around the manor at night alone?"

Lucius Malfoy's voice made her jump. When she spun around, he was standing two metres behind her. She hadn't heard him approach.

As she thought about it, she realized that she actually _wasn't_ afraid of Malfoy Manor, not after spending the day with Narcissa and Draco. She smiled happily to herself. How could she be afraid when she and Draco had just slept together upstairs in his Quidditch-themed boyhood bedroom?

"What could you possibly be doing awake at this time of night, Miss Granger?" Lucius asked silkily.

She swallowed; a thread of nervousness wicked through her. Draco and Narcissa were one thing; Lucius was an entirely different creature. She didn't trust him whatsoever.

"I, erm, got hungry," Hermione stuttered.

He lifted one eyebrow. "I can lead you to the kitchens. Worry not, Miss Granger... just follow me."

Against her better judgment, she complied.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy said nothing as she conducted several revealing charms on her snack. He kept a respectful distance on the opposite side of the room, watching her every move as he leaned against a counter. Hermione tried not to feel self-conscious as she devoured the bowl of vanilla ice cream.

"What are you doing here, Miss Granger?" he finally asked.

She froze, and her expression betrayed her confusion.

"Look around. You're in a pureblood Death Eater's house. Neither of us have forgotten what happened here to you and your friends." Lucius steepled his fingers together. "You're an intelligent witch, with perhaps more common sense than my son. So why are you here?"

"I should think it's obvious," Hermione replied

"Draco?" Lucius snorted bitterly. "Draco is fickle and prone to flighty, juvenile passions. I'm sure you've seen it yourself. He spends money promiscuously. He sulks like a child. He drinks without consideration of the consequences. And in you..."

"Me?" she interrupted accusingly.

"Yes, _you_, Miss Granger. You. You are a challenge. You are intelligent. You are the rebellious, inappropriate choice. Surely you can see the appeal to someone as strong-willed as my son. And I know you aren't sleeping with him..." At her guilty expression, he raised an eyebrow. "Or rather, weren't sleeping with him."

"Much as I appreciate this newly complimentary side of you, Mr. Malfoy, is there some reason..."

His disdainful sneer silenced her, and he continued. "Draco isn't used to a challenge. You are a novelty. And I'm fairly certain, knowing my son, that he's made no passionate declarations of love to you. In fact, I'd be shocked if he hadn't asked you to get out of his bedroom, as he does with all of his girls."

She looked down into the melting ice cream. If she looked into Lucius's eyes, he'd instantly see that he had hit on something true; she already felt misty-eyed at her lingering worries that she might be no better than Malfoy's flavour of the month.

"Draco and I are friends." Her voice didn't have the conviction she would have liked.

"Perhaps." He paused, and his eyes grew hard and dark. "The bottom line, Miss Granger, is that if my son pursues a relationship with you, I _will _cut him off from his trust fund, inheritance, everything. Are you willing to be responsible for that? Are you so certain that Draco loves you that you think it's worth it for him never to see his family again? To never set foot in the manor again?"

She couldn't answer. How could she? Yesterday, Draco had led her through the house, proudly explaining his family's history. He'd never told her he was in love with her. He'd never really renounced his plan to go to America. And hadn't everyone - Harry, Ron, even Pansy - told them that the relationship was foolish? A flash in the pan?

Hermione whispered, "But what if there _is_ something? What if... he loves me?"

Lucius looked nauseated, but nodded slowly. "Answer one question, Miss Granger. Would I be wrong if I described Draco as stubborn?"

She snorted. Draco was, in her estimation, one of the most pigheaded men she'd ever met. He would argue over politics, alcohol, the best sweets flavours - anything, as long as he ultimately won.

"I'll take it that you _have_ seen his rather pigheaded side." He cocked his head to the side. "Let Draco choose. If he... loves you... he'll chase you. But if I'm right, and you proved a temporary, albeit novel, challenge, then you go your separate ways with neither of you hurt. He still has the Malfoy money, inheritance, and reputation. And you, Miss Granger - I could make it financially worth your while, but I doubt you would accept it. No, in your case, the benefit to you is that you never get labelled the latest brainless notch on an ex Death Eater's belt."

She stared at him. It sounded horribly, sickeningly logical, even if she didn't want to admit it. Lucius smiled at her calculatingly.

"Go home, Miss Granger. Rejoin your friends, the friends who have no issues with your blood. I will tell him you left. And then we simply wait and see if he follows."

* * *

The sun streamed through Draco's bedroom window. The squawking yodel of the peacocks cut through his sleep. He stretched and patted the left side of his bed... and found nothing. The mattress was cold. When he peered over the edge of the bed, Hermione's purse and dress were gone; the pearls had also been taken from the night table.

"Granger? Hermione?" he mumbled.

No response. A chill shot through him - where could she have gone? But he vaguely remembered telling her about the sweets in her room. Perhaps she'd returned there for a snack and for a trip to the loo.

He rolled out of bed, yanked on his boxers and slippers, and padded out of his bedchamber. Down the corridor, he found Hermione's room completely empty. Her suitcase, shoes and books were gone. Her bedlinens had been undisturbed. Her distinctively godawful ASDA suitcase was even gone.

_Maybe she's gone down to breakfast_, he thought.

But when he arrived at the dining room, he found his mother and father sitting at the table alone, sipping on tea.

"Where's Miss Granger?" Narcissa asked.

Lucius's eye twitched; Draco didn't catch it, but his wife certainly did. Narcissa stared Lucius down, but he refused to meet her gaze.

"She isn't here? Her room is cleared out." A thread of panic wound through Draco. "Maybe something's happened to her. She woke up in the middle of the night..."

At that, he realized he'd admitted that they were sleeping together, and he blushed hotly. A smile flitted over Narcissa's lips for a moment.

"I'm sure she's fine, darling. The manor has so many protective charms over it, unless..."

Her voice died and she looked pointedly at Lucius. Draco's eyes widened accusingly; his hand went to his wand; and he felt his lip curl angrily over his teeth.

"Father. What. Have. You. Done?" he hissed.

"Why are you both looking at me?" Lucius snapped. "For fuck's sake, do you think I'm capable of offing the girl in the middle of the night?"

Narcissa and Draco stared at Lucius with disbelieving expressions. Lucius sighed, knowing very well that he was capable.

"Fine, don't answer that. But there wouldn't be any benefit commensurate with the risk, considering the mudblood's high profile." Lucius ate a slice of grapefruit, ignoring his son's lethal glare. "I didn't touch the girl."

"But, Lucius, you know where she is." Narcissa frowned. "I can tell."

Lucius scowled at her as if she were the consummate traitor. He didn't meet Draco's gaze.

"I saw her last night. The girl was lost looking for the kitchens. Apparently, she was quite hungry."

Draco examined the carpet with embarrassment at Narcissa's smirk. He felt a bit guilty; after all, he'd felt totally knackered and hadn't bothered getting up with her.

"And?" Narcissa prompted.

"And what?" Lucius focused intently on buttering his toast. "She asked me where the floo was, and when I asked why, she told me she wanted to leave."

"Leave? Why?"

Draco's mind conjured up a hundred possible crises, each worse than the last. He missed the suspicious glare Narcissa shot toward her husband.

"She told me she had made a mistake. She told me to tell you good-bye." Lucius lifted up an empty cup from the centre of the table. "Tea, Draco?"

Draco stared at his father for a moment. His mind seemed to crash - everything had been perfect when he'd fallen asleep, and suddenly, without the faintest hint of _why_, she was gone. And it sounded sickeningly _final_. He felt as if he might throw up.

"Draco?" Narcissa asked.

Without answering, staring blankly at the floor, Draco walked out.

Narcissa turned on her husband.

"You've done something!"

"I didn't lie to the girl, and I didn't order her out, if that's your assumption." He paused. "I pointed out a few realities, and she left."

"He loves her, Lucius." She shook her head. "How could you?"

"He fancies himself in love with her. I did this for him," Lucius snapped. "I will never, ever support this... unnatural coupling, Narcissa. And it's better this ends before he's irrevocably damaged our family."

"You've done this for yourself, and you will fix it."

"I'm ordering you not to meddle, Narcissa. I've done nothing to prevent them..." he spat out the next word, "_reuniting_. But I suspect their feelings run less strongly than you believe, especially with the mudblood. She's gone after him for his name and money."

"You're wrong, Lucius. And I think they'll prove you wrong." Narcissa stood and tossed down her napkin. "I'm unwell, and going to my bedchamber. I don't want to be disturbed by anyone... except for Draco."

She stalked out. Lucius, left alone, continued to unconcernedly finish his breakfast. They would come around. It was just a matter of time before they saw sense.

* * *

**AN: **Don't worry, the story's almost done. Also, isn't it awesome? I almost have THREE HUNDRED reviews! That's amazing, no? I'm not even a real writer, I only ever write horribly boring court documents!


	26. Chapter 26

Harry staggered down to the front door to No. 12 Grimmauld Place. Still on Christmas hols, he had taken the opportunity every day to sleep in until noon. Ginny had visited almost every day, and Ron had managed a few mostly-sober visits.

It was, all in all, relaxing.

At least, until he heard a knock at the door and swung open the door to find Hermione Granger standing there, a suitcase in each hand, her eyes red and teary.

"Hi," Hermione sniffled. "Can I come in? I was wondering if I could stay over a couple of days."

Harry sighed and nodded. He could guess exactly what had happened, and was taking every ounce of self-control to bite back an _I told you so_. He gestured for Hermione to come into the kitchen, and he silently put on the teakettle before settling into the closest chair.

"He dumped you," Harry said matter-of-factly.

Hermione settled into the chair opposite him. "No."

"Oh, come on." Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't give me some ridiculous story about it being mutual, or complicated..."

"It's not complicated at all." Hermione hiccupped. "I left him."

That startled him into silence for a moment. "Why?" Then a horrible thought came to him. "Did he... hurt you?"

"Malfoy? No! God, no." She sighed. "It just... wasn't right."

"That's what we've all been telling you for months, Hermione. What caused the sudden revelation?" Harry said snidely, then sighed apologetically. "He never deserved you anyhow. I'm sure whatever he did... anyhow, you're getting upset. Have a cup of tea and settle in. We can talk about Malfoy later, if you want."

Hermione smiled gratefully and took the teacup he proffered. Harry began to chatter away about his Auror training; but Hermione kept thinking of Malfoy, and a niggling voice in her head chided herself for running away.

* * *

Draco sat down at the breakfast table. One of the Hogwarts school owls had arrived a few minutes earlier, and he had read the letter with tight-lipped silence. He had been much the same for the past three days, ever since Hermione had left. He had hoped she would return, or perhaps send a letter.

Instead, there had been silence. So he had sent her a letter at Hogwarts.

"Has your Hermione written back?" Narcissa asked hopefully.

"No." His voice was terse. "The Headmistress returned my letter. Hermione's taken an indeterminate leave of absence. She hasn't left a forwarding address."

"She has left you, Draco. No sense in dwelling pathetically on what you cannot change." Lucius shrugged. "Perhaps we should begin negotiations to arrange you a suitable marriage. It might prove distracting..."

"Do whatever you want," Draco muttered, "I don't care."

He tossed down the letter. Narcissa's eyes shot daggers at her husband, but Lucius ignored her.

"Wife, I'd like to speak to Draco privately, if you've finished eating."

Narcissa, shivering with anger, threw down her napkin. Without another word, she stalked out.

"What is it, Father?" Draco asked impatiently.

"Son, you have done all I asked of you in the past few months. And your reputation has been suitably reformed." He paused. "I've told Gringott's to give you access to your trust fund. Your first deposit's already been made."

Lucius waited for a thank you. Instead, Draco stared out the window blankly.

"Draco," Lucius finally snapped.

"What, Father?"

"Are you going to sit here all day, staring into space?"

"You're right. I better get moving." Draco stood. "I need to pack. My portkey leaves in an hour, and I still haven't said good-bye to Mother."

"Portkey? To where?" Lucius felt vague alarm; his son hadn't mentioned any plans. Lucius had figured Draco would immediately go back to his old habits - slumming about the Manor, drinking whiskey, gambling with his friends, and picking up whorish women.

"I've got to go back to work, Father. Christmas hols end tonight."

"Draco, didn't you hear me? I've released your trust fund."

Draco stared at his father a moment. "I can't just up and leave my job. I've got four more months until I get my potions license."

"Why in God's name would you need a potions license?" his father asked.

"I've been working like a slave since September for that bloody license," Draco snapped, "and I'm not about to give up now just because I have a bit more money to spend. I'll be back for Easter."

Draco stalked out, leaving his father very confused by what had just transpired.

* * *

Pansy always had too much of a soft spot for Draco. And, when Blaise wrote her, describing Draco's pathetic despondency, she found herself unable to ignore the letter. Oh, not that she didn't want to. How many times had she told Draco that the mudblood would be trouble? How many times had she suggested just using the services of Madam Harrietta to find himself a nice pureblooded bride? Or, in the alternative, hang about the next Pureblood ladies' luncheon and try for a roll in the hay with someone who'd drank too much champagne punch?

Yet, despite the fact that Pansy could find no redeeming qualities in Granger, Draco had obviously been totally smitten by the girl.

Which was why, nine days after New Years, when Pansy would have _liked_ to have been skiing and shopping in the Alps, she found herself portkeying to that shithole of a school in Scotland once again.

Blaise let her through the gates, and she let herself into Draco's flat - he never changed his wards - and found him flopped out on his chaise at seven p.m., an empty whiskey bottle next to him. His tailored wool robes were crumpled, and he wore two mismatched socks.

Clearly, he was entirely out of sorts.

"Draco!" she snapped.

He jumped up from the bed. "Mother? What?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. Mother? Really? She found _that_ a bit insulting.

"It's me."

"Oh, fuck, Pans, don't scare me like that." He sighed. "You're not here for a shag now that Granger's dumped me, are you?"

"I see being dumped hasn't deflated your ego any," she replied tartly. "No, I came to find out _why_ the mudblood dumped you, since she apparently has now moved in with Harry Potter."

"What?!" Draco sat up abruptly. "Hermione and Potter?"

"It's all over the papers. I thought you'd have read it in _Celebrity Spotting_ yesterday." Pansy settled delicately on the ottoman. "She's living in your uncle's fleabag house - Grimmauld Place - with Potter. Though I think it might actually be platonic, since Potter's marrying the Weasley girl in two weeks. Maybe your girl has better taste than I gave her credit for, and rejected Scarhead."

Draco was only half-listening, now that he had a reason to latch onto for Hermione's disappearance.

"Potter! That arsehole! No wonder he kept trying to break us up. The whole time, he wanted her for himself." He paused, finally taking a moment to think it through. "But then how did Potter convince her to leave in the middle of the night? And wouldn't Father have mentioned if Hermione floo'ed out to Potter's place?"

Pansy cocked her head. Her face twisted into contemptuous frown. "Let me get this straight. Your _father_ told you that Granger left you in the middle of the night?"

"Yes."

Pansy was silent a moment. "Granger didn't say anything to you? What were you two doing right before you went to sleep?"

Draco's face reddened. "Erm..."

Pansy held up one hand. "Enough said. So things had progressed. No hint of trouble? You weren't a horrible, selfish shag, were you?"

"No!" Draco scowled at her. "Don't be stupid, I'm not Ronald Weasley."

An inexplicable flicker of annoyance crossed Pansy's face; Draco filed it away to ask about later. She looked at him as if he were rather slow.

"Draco, your father is the deepest sleeper in Wiltshire." Pansy paused. "For God's sake, Draco, he once slept through Voldemort calling him. His flesh was literally burning, and _he slept through it_. Have you ever seen him wake up before nine in the morning?

Draco stared at her. It was beginning to dawn on him that he might've been a bit stupid about this whole thing.

"Don't you think it's... _interesting_... that this is the _one time_ he happens to be awake in the middle of the night? And he conveniently happens upon your mudblood girlfriend as she's in the midst of dumping you? And said girlfriend confides only in him?

She shook her head sadly. It was clear to her that consorting with the mudblood had robbed Draco of his Slytherin instincts.

Draco took a moment to think about what she'd said. He stood and touched her back in a grateful gesture. Pansy frowned with distaste.

"Thanks, Pans."

"Ugh, she's really rubbed off on you. You're so... affectionate." She shivered. "I'd say good luck, but you know I don't like Granger. At all."

Pansy walked to the door and was about to leave, but paused and turned back to Draco.

"You should talk to your mother. She's not always as empty-minded as you think."

And with that, she left him.

* * *

Narcissa sat across from Draco in her little sitting room. The jars of glitter and boxes of dead flowers were ignored. Narcissa watched her son intently.

"What did you want to see me for, Draco? Don't you have work?"

He pinned her with his gaze. "Granger."

Narcissa looked at the floor. "What about her?"

"Mother, did Father say something to get her to leave?"

Narcissa looked guiltily at the floor, then nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he snapped.

"You know very well that I took a vow of obedience when I married your father. He ordered me not to meddle." She snapped right back at him. "I would have told you if I could. You know that."

Draco scowled. "Obedience vow. It's barbaric. I'll never have my wife take one."

Narcissa snickered and took a sip of her tea. "I doubt Miss Granger would ever agree, even if you tried desperately to convince her."

"I never said I was going to _marry _Granger, Mother."

Narcissa watched him for a long minute, memorizing the finer details of her now very adult son - his long hair, hard jaw, the way his voice sounded like Lucius's, but his words reflected a softer personality.

"What are you looking at, Mother? Is there something wrong with my hair?"

"No, no, just... looking. I might not see you for a while." She shot him a bittersweet smile.

"Oh, Mother, don't be maudlin. Easter's only eight weeks away." He rolled his eyes. "Anyhow, back to Granger. What did Father say to her to get her to leave?"

Narcissa shook her head. "It was quite uncharacteristic in its simplicity. He convinced her that if you were in love, you'd chase her. And if not, you'd stay and choose the Manor and the Malfoy money."

His lips curled into a slow smile. He still had a chance. A very good chance. Right. All he had to do was head over to Pothead's place, and... well... figure out some way to romance her; convince her that she was more important than the Malfoy money and manor. Somehow. What would convince her of his serious intentions? He had a sneaking suspicion that a bottle of elf-wine just wouldn't cut it.

The shock suddenly hit him as he realized that he hadn't even considered taking the house and the money. Dumping her hadn't occurred to him for even a moment. And that's when he knew that he was utterly gone. He loved her.

"Draco?" Narcissa's voice jolted him from his thoughts.

"Hmm?" He turned to his mother.

"Here." She pressed a silk bag into his palm. "Go, before your father gets home."

She reached up, and in a moment of uncharacteristic affection, wrapped him in a tight hug. Then, she tapped him on the back, urging him out of the room. When she saw the reflection from green flames and heard him mutter one of the floo locations in London, she sighed with relief and relaxed into her chair.

He would chase her, and Miss Granger would not deny him, not if he did the right thing. A smirk flitted to her lips at the realization that for the first time, Lucius had lost, and she had won. And she doubted Lucius would ever suspect her complicity.

* * *

When Draco stepped out of the floo, he frowned at the tiny silk bag his mother hand given him. It was too light for biscuits or money, and he'd been firm about no more fertility potions. He yanked open the drawstrings and peered inside.

Something inside sparkled under the sunlight. He tipped the bag into his palm.

Out fell a ring. The enormous emerald-and-diamond engagement ring had sat in the Malfoy Gringott's vault for years. It was a Black family heirloom, not a Malfoy gem, and one of his mother's prized possessions.

He swallowed nervously. _Fuck_.

So now he had one idea on how to get her back. One mad, impulsive, romantic, far too sudden idea on how to get her back. One that only his nutty mother could have conceived.

He was probably going to live to regret this.

* * *

**AN:** If you have a moment, I would very much appreciate if you could tell me you want/think the next chapter is going to go either through a comment or PM. I'm having some internal debates. ALSO... 100 MILLION THANKS to all the people who favourited me, it's such a compliment!


	27. Chapter 27

Harry Potter's life before the death of Voldemort had contained enough drama to last him a lifetime. Now, he just wanted to live out his life like a normal, everyday bloke - eat, work, sleep, repeat. And he'd had a good go of it, until these bloody Christmas hols had started. His friends were just loaded with drama this year, and he decidedly _did not_ like being their sounding board.

First, Hermione had appeared, all tears and wistful sighs, on New Year's morning. Since then, the sight of every arseholish-looking blond on the telly would make her retreat to her room, sniffling.

Then, Ron began to show up at odd hours, sober but rambling only semi-coherently about _not judging Hermione for following her heart_, and _how unfair and closed minded magical society still was_ - which Harry thought rather rich, given Ron's earlier hatred toward Malfoy.

Ginny didn't help matters, dragging him out nearly every evening and weekend to make - in her words - "important wedding choices." Fruitcake or pumpkin? Chardonnay or elf-wine? Fuchsia or violet neckties? And when Harry responded that he didn't really care - well, he now understood the depths of the Weasley temper.

When he heard a knock at his door, ten days after New Year's, he added a fourth name to that list: Blaise Zabini.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked him tiredly.

"That's rather rude, even for you, Potter." Blaise pursed his lips. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"I hadn't really considered it," he muttered, but opened the door wider to let Zabini through.

"Anyone else here with you?" Zabini asked, head swivelling around.

"You know perfectly well that Hermione's here. It's been all over the papers, Zabini." He sighed. "And if you're wondering about angry Weasleys, you don't have to worry. My fiancee and Ron are at mass this morning."

Zabini's eyes snapped toward him, and slowly, Zabini nodded. "I'm here to see Hermione. She's left Draco a right mess, and someone needs to talk to her."

"_She's_ left _Draco _a mess? She's been moping around here, eating Weight Watchers puddings and talking to her cat in a baby voice! She's turning into a mad cat lady. I have half a mind to go lay into Malfoy for whatever he's done to her."

Zabini raised one eyebrow. "She hasn't told you, has she? _She's_ the one who left in the middle of the night. It was a hit and run, Paula Abdul style - she shagged him, then bolted. Draco hasn't a clue why, and I don't think it's because he was terrible in the sack, because Draco said that he made sure to get her..."

Harry waved off Zabini, feeling his face turn puce. "Oh, God, stop, I don't want the details."

"He's been moping about his flat. He doesn't even give out detentions anymore." Zabini shook his head sadly. "On the plus side, Malfoy absolutely hates you now, Potter. He suspects you may be having a white-hot affair with Hermione, and he's jealous as hell."

"How is that 'on the plus side,' Zabini?" he snarled.

"Because it means he's still mad for Granger. I've never seen Draco jealous, not even when Pansy slept with Goyle, and that..."

The sound of shuffling, slippered footsteps silenced him. Hermione's voice, schooled into a squeaky baby voice, wafted into the kitchen. It sounded suspiciously like _do you want some tuna, poopsiekins_?

Harry and Zabini eyed each other with concern.

Hermione appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, wearing yellow pyjama pants and an enormous Kenmare Kestrels T-shirt. She froze when she spotted Zabini. Crookshanks, seizing the opportunity, leapt from her arms and ran. Hermione barely noticed.

"Blaise? Did Dr..." She paused. "What're you doing here?"

"Draco sent me," Zabini replied.

"Really?" Her voice was a girlish squeal.

Zabini shook his head and Hermione's face fell. "Look at you! You're still head over heels for him, Granger. This is ridiculous. You're ridiculous."

"Wait," Harry interrupted, "so Malfoy _didn't _send you here?"

Zabini stared at Potter with a look that clearly read _are you really that thick?_ "No, Potter. He didn't."

They sat for a moment in awkward silence. Hermione chewed her lip and refused to meet either Harry or Zabini's gaze.

Finally, Zabini broke the silence. "Why did you leave him, Granger? That's all I want to know. That's all _he_ wants to know, since he's pretty much gutted by how carelessly you ditched him."

"I didn't! It was for his benefit!" Tears sprung to her eyes. "When I was at Malfoy Manor, he spent the whole day talking about how proud he was of his home, his money, his family history - and then, when I got up in the middle of the night, his father told me that if we continued the relationship, Draco would be cut off. The money, the house, the family, everything. He told me to let Draco make the choice... and that I didn't belong there. He was right, you know. It made sense..."

"Wait, let me get this straight." Harry looked at her with utter disbelief. "You let Lucius Malfoy convince you to dump Draco? How could you be so bloody stupid? Lucius Malfoy lies for a living, Hermione. I can guarantee you that in the morning, he didn't say to Draco, 'Son, I sent away Granger so that you could make a choice, the girl or the money.' He almost certainly painted you as some two-timing tart."

Hermione felt the sting of hurt. She'd been called many things, but never _bloody stupid_. She looked to Blaise for some support, but he stared back at her with a look of pitying disbelief as well.

Hermione suddenly felt quite foolish. Tears prickled her eyes at the realization that she'd been easily and blindly manipulated. Harry looked down into his tea and began to speak in a low voice.

"You know, Hermione, I once overheard something Malfoy said about you. I never told you, because I thought that Malfoy didn't deserve you. Do you remember that night at your parents' house when he turned you down? The next morning, he said that he didn't sleep with you because he was afraid of losing you." He looked up at her. "And here we are. He was right."

She felt her cheeks colour with embarrassment.

"Oh, Hermione." Zabini's mouth twitched with a hint of amusement. "Surely you don't want to prove Malfoy right, do you?"

She let out a hiccup she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. "No."

She looked toward Harry, hoping for some reassurance. He patted her on the shoulder. "Hermione, I'm sorry, but I'm kicking you out. You've overstayed your welcome and will just have to go back to work."

Hermione shot him an appreciative smile. She stood and walked to the door to the kitchen. She paused for a moment, and looked back toward Zabini.

"You aren't doing this just because you're sick of covering my absences, are you?" she asked.

"Such cynicism!" Zabini grinned. "I have tickets to a Spice Girls concert this weekend. I think covering my rounds on Saturday should be a suitable thank you."

She nodded and shot both of her friends a brilliant, appreciative smile. "Thank you - both of you. Give me an hour to pack and I'll be ready to apparate."

* * *

Draco stood before No. 12 Grimmauld Place. He was ready. Ready for whatever promises he had to make to get Hermione back. In his mind's eye, he could see how this would play out - he'd knock at the door and it would echo powerfully through the house. Hermione would greet him - thinner, melancholy-looking, but still beautiful, in one of those silky little Muggle dresses she liked to wear on weekends. He'd drop to one knee and tell her he didn't want the money. Then they'd kiss passionately, and he'd apparate them back to his bed.

It would be just like those crap romance novels that Weaselette always lent her.

Draco paused for a moment to examine himself in one of Potter's windows. His hair needed a bit of tweaking - he wanted to look sexily rumpled, as if he'd slept badly, but still good-looking enough to attract her. He ran his fingers through his blond locks, trying to muss them a bit.

It was at that point that the door swung open. Potter stood in the doorway in jeans and a parka, obviously going out.

"Oh God, not another one," Potter muttered. "Malfoy, why are you on my front step, admiring your hair in my window?"

"I was not admiring it, I was rearranging..." He frowned. "It doesn't matter! I'm here to see Hermione."

"What, here to see our white-hot affair firsthand? Don't worry, Zabini can tell you all about it."

Draco scowled. So Zabini had been here - which was odd in itself - and had run his big mouth to Potter. No wonder the Dark Lord had never trusted that Italian poofter; tell him a secret and the whole of magical Britain would know it in five minutes.

"Lay off it, Potter, and let me talk to her," he snarled.

Potter laughed. "You haven't seen her, then?"

A stab of white-hot rage arced through him at Potter's laughter. Frustration and impatience coursed through him. But he didn't act on it, knowing that punching Potter would feel wonderful, but would cause more trouble than it was worth.

"Obviously not, Potty!" His voice was almost a shout.

"Ah, now be nice, Malfoy." Potter shrugged. "She's not here anymore. She's left."

Left? Horrible thoughts raced through his head - perhaps she'd taken up a new job, or moved in with the Ginger Weasel, or moved onto some new bloke, or gone off to some other country... and he'd missed his chance. His face fell. He'd end up in some horrible contracted marriage with a Greengrass, or a Bulstrode, and pine after Granger forever from afar.

"Malfoy, go home."

Potter's gentle voice startled him out of his horrible thoughts.

"Why the hell would I go to Wiltshire?" Draco snapped. "I just left there."

Potter smiled, and there didn't seem to be any mockery in it. "No, Malfoy, you don't live in Wiltshire. Go home. Go to Hogwarts. She's waiting for you there."

It wasn't too late; in fact, she was _waiting for him. _She'd returned _for him_. A grin spread over his lips. He knew he looked like a fool - Potter's eye roll confirmed it - but he didn't care. Without another word, he apparated away.

* * *

**AN:** Thanks again to all my lovely reviewers. I am really shocked that my first fanfic is almost at 300 reviews and almost 200 favourites - and not even because people love to laugh at it, like "My Immortal," but because people seem to be genuinely enjoying it. Next chapter by New Years, hopefully. XD


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: I hope this long, long chapter makes up for my tardiness. It may be awhile before I upload my next one, as I'm completely and utterly out of ideas right now. Sorrrrrryyyy... **

* * *

Draco had expected something dramatic. Some awkwardness, some uncertainty - maybe some dramatic shouting and crying, like in a bad romance film. He really hated apologies; and the dramatics always made them ten times worse. He clutched the ring in his hands - it was his last chance, if things went utterly awry.

He didn't expect to find Granger waiting in his sitting room when he returned, a book clasped in her hands.

"Hermione?" he asked, and he chided himself for sounding so - whimpery and pathetic.

She looked up with a puzzled expression. "Draco?"

She sounded so uncertain. It chilled him. What if she _hadn't _come back for him? But then, why would she be in _his sitting room_?

"Zabini lent me this book to read while I waited for you." She held it up so he could see the cover.

_Magical Gemstones and their Meanings_.

"Shall I read you the section on pearls?" she asked quietly.

"No." He tried not to sound too sulky - fucking Zabini and his fucking big fat mouth, spoiling other people's secrets. Malfoy made a mental note to do some retaliatory blabbing when the chance arose.

"So you knew what they meant when you gave those earrings to me," she said. "Were you playing a joke on me? Making fun of my ignorance?"

"Oh, don't be fucking ridiculous." He rolled his eyes. "You're such a pain in the arse, Hermione. You know my father reamed me out for those bloody earrings? It would have been the most un-funny joke _ever_."

"_You're _the one who bought them. Why did you even get them in the first place?"

He let out a frustrated growl. "Isn't it obvious? Maybe I _wanted_ everyone around to know you're already _taken_, Granger, even though I knew you'd go nutters and yell at me about feminism and chauvinism if you'd known that I was basically marking you 'property of Malfoy'. So I did it and never bothered telling you."

He went silent and looked sulkily at the floor. She said nothing for a long minute, and he could feel her eyes scrutinizing him. Finally, she let out a deep sigh.

"Oh, Draco. This is _not_ one of your many chauvinistic moments." Her eyes looked moist. "It's a beautiful gesture. I just didn't think you'd want everyone to _know._"

"Don't be stupid. Every time you go out with your friends, I'm fairly convinced some brawny moron's going to sweep you off your feet," he mumbled. "I've got to use whatever I've got to repel them, even if it's jewelry."

He felt himself blushing, and swore at himself internally for turning into a soppy idiot. At least, thank God, he hadn't fallen to the level of Pothead and started writing bad poetry and songs. Besides, he'd briefly considered it, and nothing really rhymed with _Hermione_.

She reached over and tried to clasp his hand with hers.

"Draco, what's that bit of cloth in your hand?"

His mother's ring. Damn. He hadn't needed it - in fact, had mostly forgotten it - and it seemed wrong to use it now, knowing it had been his emergency back-up plan. No, when he gave it to her, it had to be special.

He stuffed it in his pocket. "Nothing, just some stuff I took from the Manor."

She seemed to dismiss it, and got a mischievous look in her eye. "See, you're not much of a problem solver, Malfoy. If you don't want me going out and attracting brawny morons, there are plenty of ways to keep me distracted here in the castle."

He smirked at the invitation, stood, and pulled her toward the bedroom door.

* * *

When Hermione awoke, the first thing she realized is that she'd been awakened by Zabini's voice.

The second was that she was lying next to a very naked, sleeping Draco, who still had his arm locked around her waist.

"Hey, I take it your argument's over then?" Zabini called through the shut bedroom door.

"Yes, now fuck off, we're trying to rest," Draco groaned as he awoke.

"Oh, and thanks for the book you lent me, it was helpful!" Hermione added.

"You're welcome!" he shouted, and she could hear the front door thud shut behind him.

"God, Granger," Draco said, "Don't encourage him, or he'll be letting himself into my flat at all hours to have conversations through the bedroom door."

She grinned at him, and ended his whinging with a kiss.

* * *

They were a _thing_. Not that they made a big deal out of it - no more photo ops, no grand announcements, or snogging in public - it was a change that only the two of them really recognized.

With every night he spent in Granger's flat, or vice versa, his resolve began to solidify. Incremental moments over the month pushed him toward that ring. It was if fate had planted its messengers in all corners, whispering to him _get that ring on Granger_.

When fate made itself so clear, who was he to ignore it?

The first came at the wedding of Ginevra Weasley to Harry Potter. Draco had no desire to go to said event, but now that he and Hermione were a _thing_, he supposed he'd better go. That, and Potter's casual comment that, "single witches always find someone to go home with at weddings, it's a proven fact."

Draco hadn't been to many weddings, but he wasn't taking the risk of Granger being romanced by some broad-shouldered Auror pal of Potter's. So, on February 14th (how predictably saccharine), he dressed up in a decent looking set of black robes and headed over to the inoffensive banqueting hall the happy couple had chosen. Hermione had gone ahead early to help Weaselette with hair and perfume and whatever the hell else brides did to pretty up.

When he saw Hermione for the first time, standing in the doorway to the hall, he'd frozen. She looked like she had at the Yule Ball, but this time, a woman; all curves encased in silk, with a cascade of spring-curled hair. Her lips were bright red, and her eyes seemed more alight than usual.

"You're here," she murmured, "you look great."

He leaned forward to kiss her, but she'd turned her head. "Don't smudge my lipstick, not yet. Can you imagine the scandal if our first public outing is me, snogged and messy, next to Gin and Harry at the altar?"

"I can think of worse headlines."

She swatted him playfully. "That can be afterward. Did you... ensure your father will find out?"

He smirked and nodded, practically rubbing his hands together. Hermione laughed, promised to return shortly, and hurried to fix a giant white balloon bouquet on a nearby chair.

Their plan would be terrifyingly brazen, but entertaining. Draco had already cleared out his trust fund and had safely secreted the money away in his own separate account for safekeeping. He'd then called up Dromerius Pinksworth, his father's favourite paparazzo, and had given the photographer a particular location and time for taking pictures "worth something".

By tomorrow, Draco was certain that he and Hermione would be splashed across the pages of the Prophet. And in turn, as Father ate his morning toast and tea, he would crack open the paper, and splatter it with half-chewed breakfast once he saw his son at the wedding of the Dark Lord's vanquisher, snogging the world's most notorious mudblood.

It would be just. Fucking. Beautiful. He only wished he could be there to see the reaction.

His ruminations on his plan were interrupted by Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas. The two boys sauntered into the wedding hall, and skidded to a stop at the sight of him.

"Feck! What are you doin' here, Ferret?" Seamus bellowed.

Clearly, the young Irishman had been into the Jameson's before attending.

"It appears that I'm attending a wedding, Finnegan," he replied, disdainfully looking over their cheap-looking robes, "are you the servers? They were looking for someone for the bar."

"Why you arsehole..." Dean snapped. "How'd you get in here? Security!"

And suddenly, Hermione was at his side, her slim arms easily encircling his waist, her head against his shoulder, as if they'd been publicly embracing for months.

"Hello Dean, Seamus." She smiled brilliantly. "Draco and I were just about to get drinks. Would you like something?"

Seamus's face looked pinched. "You and Malfoy?"

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Have all those bus bombings deafened you since you moved back to Belfast, Finnegan? They haven't blinded you, too, have they? Granger and I have been dating for months, it's been all over the papers and the wireless."

"Oh, stop." Hermione giggled and swatted at him.

Both boys looked like they'd swallowed lemons. They said nothing, just looked vaguely nauseated. Granger didn't seem to notice, and pulled him over to one of the pews for a bit of a chat before the ceremony began. It left him with a happy hum of warmth, even after she'd abandoned him to stand at Harry's side.

Half an hour later, when Pothead and Weaselette took their vows, staring each other down like a pair of lovesick house-elves, Granger turned and shot him what seemed like a rather meaningful smile.

* * *

The next moment of matrimonial clarity had been the next day. He woke up - as had become habit - entwined around Hermione in his bed. As was standard for the Hogwarts professors, the morning's Prophet had been left at his door. He padded out to get it, eager to see the photographs Pinksworth had snapped at the Weasley-Potter nuptials.

He snorted. The cover photo was suggestive - their silhouettes wrapped together in a rose garden outside of Potter's wedding, lips clearly meeting. The next photo, inside, was far more than suggestive. It was _trashy_. Both of them looked startled, their eyes wide and glossy in the camera. The flashbulb had washed them out, making Hermione's smudged lipstick starkly blood-red against parchment-white skin. His hand was obscenely visible, clamping her arse. His own mouth was smudged red by proxy. Draco's free hand waved off the photographer with irritation.

As he walked back to the bed, he skimmed the article.

_**Stealing the Spotlight!**_ _Here, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy make a rare - and passionate! - appearance for the cameras whilst leaving the wedding of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley. After months without any hint of romance, we were starting to worry that the flames from this odd couple had died down to embers! But it seems things are going strong for this dark, ex-Death Eater and Britain's golden girl! Says Blaise Zabini, a very close friend of Malfoy's, "They're practically shagging in public wherever they go. I mean, hell, on Christmas Eve he told his parents he was at my place, but actually spent the night at Granger's parents' house, drinking and doing God knows what else. They need to tone it down a bit, it's just not classy." Meeting the parents? Sizzling evenings in Muggle Britain? After five months together, are Malfoy and Granger ready to take the next step?_

He snorted. He'd have to thank Zabini later for such a platinum quote - Father would have an absolute conniption at the thought of his lily-pure son sneaking out to Muggle Britain for a nighttime romp - and then lying about it.

And, at that, another owl arrived at the window, the pure-white one his family used. His light mood vanished, even though he knew this awful letter was coming. It was short, to the point, and without endearments - just like Father.

_Do not return to the Manor or any other properties. The account at Gringott's is now closed to you. If for some reason my conclusions are incorrect, you may write me. Otherwise, cease all contact. _

_LM_

It crossed his mind that this might be the last communication he ever had with his parents. He stared down at the creamy parchment, seemingly unable to rid his mind of that thought.

"It'll be all right."

He jumped at Hermione's voice. She laid a hand on his back and rubbed it in small circles. It didn't help, of course - what can when your father disowns you? But he knew he'd made the right decision. He'd considered it now for six weeks. And looking over at Hermione in her sexy little pink singlet, smiling reassuringly, he knew there was no turning back.

* * *

Being cut off from the family money prompted Malfoy into action - and this action led to fate's next hint that he should marry Granger.

Without money, living was rather difficult. Even living as a single bachelor would be near-impossible without a salary. So he trudged up to McGonagall's office a few days after the Potter nuptials (hoping she'd still be in a good mood), in an attempt to secure employment.

Two months ago, it would've been so beneath him. And he still would've preferred to be an independently wealthy gentleman, but he'd given that up, so to speak. And now, he sat in her office, her icy blue eyes pinning him with unconcealed distaste.

McGonagall's sharp voice interrupted his piteous thoughts.

"Did you come up here just to stare into my fireplace, Mister Malfoy?"

"Erm, noooo, Headmistress."

"Perhaps you've attended to address some of the more... morally objectionable behaviour you've been involved in lately?"

He flushed. "Ah, not really..."

"Well, Mister Malfoy, _I _would like to discuss it. This is not a bar. This is not a muggle college residence. This is a school for young children, and I expect our teachers to set a morally upright standard for these young people to follow." She pursed her lips. "Not fondling one another in the corridors, nor having 'sleepovers' whilst unwed, nor staggering about drunk every Saturday night, nor getting drunk at the Three Broomsticks, nor _brewing personal contraceptives in the mixing room during first-year potions_!"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. They don't even know what contraceptive is..."

"Professor Slughorn was less than enthused that Miss Dalrymple asked about your potions, Mister Malfoy. He has no desire to explain the birds and the bees to a twelve year old."

"Twelve? I'm pretty sure at that age they have some idea how..." He stopped himself; he was here to suck up to McGonagall, not enrage her. "You're right. I apologize, Headmistress. I'll stop brewing them in the mixing room."

McGonagall looked as if she'd been struck. Malfoy never apologized; the last time he could clearly recall doing so was his apology to Granger when he'd made her cry about Weasley. And look how that had turned out - well, not too badly, considering he was now getting semi-regular shags, but it had also resulted in this whole "genteel poverty" thing.

"I'll get to the point, Headmistress. I need a job."

She stared at him, then smiled bitterly. "Why would _you _need a job, Mister Malfoy? You've made your views on _working _quite clear over the past five months."

He sighed. "I need the money."

"I was under the impression, as you have repeated time and again, that you are 'independently wealthy'."

"Father cut me off because of my relationship with Granger."

She raised one eyebrow. "Understandable. On some level, I'm inclined to agree, as shocking as that may sound."

His jaw dropped. "Are you suggesting that muggleborns and purebloods shouldn't..."

"Don't be foolish, Mister Malfoy. I've made my distaste for such beliefs well known over the past eight years." She pursed her lips. "However, I have also made my distaste known for... _fornication_."

He nearly snorted at the word choice, but managed to rein himself in and fake a serious expression.

"Well, Headmistress." He tried to look melancholy. "I don't think I can legitimately promise to support a wife, not without a job. So you understand my conundrum."

The Headmistress froze. For a moment, she looked as if she had taken a dozing draught. And then, she slowly asked, "Are you telling me that you intend to make your relationship with Miss Granger permanent?"

He sighed. "I suppose I am," then muttered, "though I don't know if she'll go for it..."

"I was under the impression, Mister Malfoy, that you intended to take an extended bachelor's vacation in the United States. You never really struck me as interested in... nuptial bonds." McGonagall's nose crinkled at him.

He felt a flicker of anger. "With all due respect, Headmistress, I've been _only _with Hermione since September. And I think I've made it pretty bloody clear that I'm _only _interested in her. You realize I've been cut off from my family because I chose her, don't you? Do you think I'd do that for just any random bint?"

McGonagall eyed him closely. He squirmed in his chair, feeling the collective stares of all the portraits upon him. After an awkward, silent moment, McGonagall's lips quirked. She glanced over at Snape's portrait, and the dark-haired image gave a barely-perceptible nod.

"It took some courage to come up here, Mister Malfoy. You seem to have grown up." She paused. "If you do the honourable thing, I will find you a teaching position starting next year. But _only _if."

Malfoy nodded. Right. So the decision was made.

He just hoped Hermione wouldn't be too angry when she found out McGonagall had been the first to know.


	29. Chapter 29

Draco tapped at the door to Hermione's parents' house. His heart hammered in his chest at the prospect of seeing the muggle tooth-driller again. After all, their first meeting had not gone well. Considering Draco's reasons for going to meet her parents, he was even more intimidated. Right. Breathe in, breathe out. This was a rite of passage for all respectable young wizards.

He pressed the doorbell. Mrs. Granger - _Doctor_ Granger, he reminded himself - opened the door.

"Oh! Draco. What an... unexpected surprise." She smiled warmly. "We were just having supper. Is Hermione with you?"

"No." His voice sounded reedy. "I wanted to speak with your husband."

She grimaced at that, and Draco fleetingly wondered if he'd made some unpredictable Muggle faux pas. Was this another one of these _not being a chauvinist pig_ moments that Hermione was always harping on about?

He didn't have much time to mull over that thought, as the husband spotted him immediately.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where's Hermione? We were just about to eat supper."

"She hasn't come with him, Reginald. Are you hungry, Draco?" Hermione's mother asked. "We've ordered takeaway from Bombay Cottage. There's more than enough if you'd like some."

Hermione's father - that, in Draco's mind, was easier than confusingly referring to both as _Dr. Granger_ - scowled at his wife and began to shovel into a massive plate of rice, steadfastly ignoring Draco.

The man wasn't making this easy.

So, Draco tentatively approached the table. He took some solace in Hermione's mother - she was shooting a look of sympathy, at least. Draco sat down in what he knew was Hermione's chair at the dining table.

"Sir. I've been thinking about Hermione lately."

"That's nice. Cynthia, pass the chutney, will you?"

_Cynthia _sat across from Draco and shot him a small smile. "What have you been thinking about, Draco?"

He relaxed a bit. Hermione's mum seemed like a decent sort. She poured him some tea, and he took the cup with a grateful nod.

"I've been thinking that I'd like to ask her to marry me," he blurted out. "And I wanted to know if you would approve, Sir."

Mr. Granger's spoon froze, horrifyingly, halfway between his plate and mouth. His dark eyes latched onto Draco, wide and incredulous. This awkward moment seemed to last an eternity. Draco's heartbeat sped up, and he had a horrible sinking feeling.

"Are you joking?" Hermione's father asked. "She's far too young to get married. She isn't even done school! She hasn't a job! Not to mention _you_ - I've not heard much about your academics or industriousness. No, absolutely not. Maybe in a couple of years."

His stomach felt as if it was full of ice. So that was it. The horrible Muggle tooth medic had turned him down. No marriage. No reason to pursue this further. Clearly, this horrible, grumpy old man wanted to keep Hermione for some young, rich Muggle professional - maybe a young apprentice tooth driller or something.

"If Hermione wants to get married, I think it's lovely." Cynthia piped up. "Just make sure you both have your plans settled for the future. Nothing's worse for a relationship than money problems, Draco."

He smiled wanly at her, but his stomach roiled. He felt like vomiting. His plans _did not_ royally fuck up like this. Seriously, was he _that_ terrible of husband material? Maybe to Muggles, he came across as a total arse - that was the only explanation he could think of.

"Do you want a plate?" Hermione's father asked gruffly. "You need to eat, you look pretty thin."

Draco felt like laughing. Now the man was offering him dinner after insulting him!

He stood. "No, thank you, Sir. I better be going."

He nodded at each of them and walked out the front door. Cynthia Granger shot her husband a chiding look, and he had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"Oh, stop trying to make me feel guilty," he muttered. "What I think doesn't matter anyhow. She'll be ringing us in a day to tell us about his proposal."

* * *

Malfoy found it incredibly unnerving when Harry Potter, Ginny Potter, Ronald Weasley, or various other Gryffindors would show up at his flat unannounced. Or, technically, _their_ flat, since Hermione had moved most of her things in, and she rarely ever went back to her own rooms. Hell, even that orange-furred monster, Crookshanks, had taken up residence in his place (generally, in his tie drawer, leaving said ties coated with orange fur).

Today was the worst. Not only had the Arsehole Granger Father scuttled his matrimonial plans not twenty four hours ago, but he now had all three of Hermione's old friends sitting awkwardly in the sitting room. Trying to make _smalltalk_.

"So, erm, Malfoy. How is work?" Weaselette asked.

"As unpleasant as ever," he replied. "I need a drink."

"Oh, lovely, I'll have one," she piped up. "What is it?"

He bit back the _I wasn't offering you_ that sat on the tip of his tongue.

"Creme de violette," he replied, pouring out a glass for the girl. "Here."

"Oh, thank you, Malfoy." She sniffed it. "It reminds me of something... oh, that perfume you bought me, Harry."

So it was Potter who had such rubbishy taste. Typical. But, he had to admit, Weaselette was being rather polite, and he decided that she wasn't nearly as bad as her idiot brothers.

"So, ah, Malfoy, you're joining us for supper?" Potter asked tentatively. "I didn't know you went to Muggle restaurants."

"You don't have to worry about me crashing your dinner. I have plans with Blaise." He pursed his lips. "And what makes you think I don't go to Muggle restaurants? I've gone to _several_, actually."

"Name one," Ron replied irritably.

He searched his memory. What had been the name of that tacky Scottish place? The one they'd gotten chips and Fanta at on the way back from the Granger house?

"MacKinnon's? MacDougall's? I don't remember. It had a large yellow M in the window and no proper waiters and all they seemed to sell was beef patties on a bun."

"McDonald's," Potter said. "There are better Muggle restaurants. She took you to the worst of the worst. We're not going somewhere like _that_ tonight."

Ron looked sulkily at the floor, clearly expecting that Malfoy had been lying to save face.

At that point, the door to his flat burst open, and Zabini walked in. Zabini was dressed fussily, even for him - a perfectly pressed blue pantsuit, a white silk shirt, matching shoes, and a cocked hat. Draco wondered what he was up to, given that they'd planned only to hit up the Three Broomsticks.

"Oh, you lot are going out for supper as well?" Blaise said. "How coincidental!"

"I don't see how it's coincidental. It's Saturday and it's suppertime," Draco replied matter of factly.

"Well, if we're all going out for supper, why don't we go together? After all, the more friends the better."

Draco stared at Blaise as if he had two heads. Blaise seemed oblivious, and stared at the sofa where the two Weasleys were sitting.

"I don't know..." Weaselette began, shooting nervous looks between Ron and Draco.

"Actually, it's not a bad idea, Zabini," Ron said. "After all, Hermione and Ferret are in a relationship. We really should make an effort to be friends, eh?"

_Have I stepped into some kind of alternate dream world? _

Clearly Potter thought the same, as he shot Malfoy an utterly confused frown. It was an unexpected, and odd, moment of cameraderie between the two men.

At that moment, Hermione walked out of the lav, wearing a rather short, rather tarty Muggle dress. She'd yanked her hair up into a bun, and had even bothered putting a bit of makeup on. In short, she looked completely shaggable. Draco glanced over at her friends; Weasley's eyes were wide, round, and glued to her tits.

Fuck. Weasley looked ready to jump her.

"Actually, Blaise, why not," Draco agreed through gritted teeth. "The more the merrier."

* * *

The restaurant wasn't awful. Actually, it was better than most wizarding establishments he'd been to. Draco had to admit it, in fairness, even if he had silently hoped for Wizarding restaurant superiority. Even the beer was pretty good, though perhaps a bit too strong. After a couple of pints, Zabini and Weasel had gotten completely involved in a conversation over some obscure Wizarding rock band, and Weaselette and Potter had started to get all touchy-feely across the table.

"Ugh, are they going to lay off at _all_ tonight?" he muttered to Hermione.

She took a sip of her cocktail and shook her head. "Likely not. I'll go to the lav - Ginny always loves to follow and gossip - that'll give you a break from their tentacle-snogging."

She abruptly stood. "I'm going to the ladies', excuse me."

"Ooh!" Ginny broke away from Potter's mouth. "One sec, Hermione, I'll come along too."

Potter's look of disappointment was classic, like a sad basset hound, and Draco pressed his glass to his lips to keep from laughing.

"Oi, Malfoy." Ron piped up, now that Hermione wasn't there to hear. "So you two have been living together for a month, eh? Are you just planning on living in sin with Hermione indefinitely?"

"Oh, Ron, lay off it," Potter replied tiredly. "You know it's not the same for Muggles..."

"Yeah, but he's _not_ a Muggle. He's the most bloody pureblooded-of-purebloods, as he reminded us ad nauseam over the past decade or so."

Malfoy's lip curled contemptuously. "Ad nauseam. Big word, Weasley. Did someone buy you a dictionary for Christmas?"

"Draco..." Zabini admonished quietly.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Ron replied. "The point stands. You're a pureblood, just like me. And we _don't_ just shack up with girlfriends as if they were some kind of Knockturn Alley mistress."

"Did you just compare Hermione to a Knockturn Alley whore, Weasley?" Malfoy snapped. "I swear to God, if we weren't in a Muggle establishment, I would..."

Potter's hand rested on his arm, and Draco nearly leapt from his seat in surprise.

"Malfoy, stop, he's just trying to get a rise out of you." Potter's mouth formed a hard line. "Though I think he's gone a bit far, if he's insulting Hermione in the process."

Ron had the good sense to look chagrined, and Malfoy, somewhat mollified, went quiet. Potter continued, calmly.

"We all understand why you're not getting engaged - well, except Ron. I mean, what, it's been seven, eight months or so, right? For Muggles, that's nothing. There's nothing wrong with taking it slow..."

"That's not it," Draco said quietly, "I can't marry her."

Potter froze. "What do you mean, Malfoy?"

"It's because she's a muggleborn, isn't it?" Ron snapped. "You haven't changed _that_ much, I knew it!"

The faces around the table dissolved into scowls. They _still_ thought he was capable of hating Hermione for her background. And though he didn't particularly like Weasley and Potter, neither could he stand being viewed as a massive, arseholish bigot by Hermione's best friends.

"No!" Draco blurted out, "I asked her father and he wouldn't give me permission."

Zabini and Ron gasped. Their irritated expressions dissolved into sympathy. Potter's eyebrow crooked.

"What?" Potter asked. "Why?"

"I asked her father and her father asked me if I was joking, told me she was too young, told me that he hadn't heard anything about my work ethic or academics, and told me absolutely not - though maybe in a couple of years." He paused. "And then he asked me if I wanted to stay for supper!"

Ron and Zabini were now staring with horrified expressions. This was the worst nightmare of any matrimonially-inclined young pureblood. The stuff of terrible romance novels. It just didn't happen in real life - if you were a nice bloke, with a job, the father always said yes.

Potter began to laugh.

Malfoy turned to him. "I'm glad you take amusement out of my misery, Potter. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do now? My grandmother's ring has been sitting in my pocket for a week. I may as well throw it out!"

Even Ron and Zabini were staring at Potter with a look that said _what a tosser_.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, stop." Potter's laughter began to die away. "Muggles are not like Purebloods. And I'm fairly certain that Dr. Granger really didn't intend for you to dump his daughter. What did Hermione's mum say?"

"Oh, she was fine with it. But she's not the one that I need permission from! What does it matter?"

"I think it likely matters a lot to Hermione. And as far as most modern English Muggles go, you don't need her dad's permission. In fact, I think Dr. Granger would be surprised that you considered his opinion at all."

Malfoy spotted Ginny and Hermione approaching the table, as did Potter.

"Malfoy, meet me at Diagon Alley tomorrow at noon. I'll help you sort this out." Potter kept his voice low. "But you remember this next time you start calling me an arsehole, all right? And a thank you bottle of wine wouldn't go amiss, if I'm successful."

The topic was abruptly dropped once the ladies returned to the table, though he noticed that neither Potter nor Weasley seemed to treat him so frostily for the rest of the night. And, he decided, maybe Potter wasn't a _complete_ tosser, after all.

* * *

Dr. Granger stared over his desk at Malfoy and Harry with an incredulous expression. The sound of drills whirred unnervingly in the background. Draco tried not to shiver, and made a mental note to ream out Potter for this stupid idea. It wasn't going to work, and Dr. Granger would just chase him out with some kind of tooth torture implement.

"You actually were planning on _not_ asking Hermione to marry you, because of what I said?" Dr. Granger's brow furrowed. "Why? My wife told you it was fine. You should've listened to Cynthia, she's generally more sensible than I am."

Malfoy's cheeks reddened. "You didn't give me permission, and you're her father."

Dr. Granger glanced over at Harry with an incredulous, questioning expression. Harry sighed.

"Malfoy comes from another culture," Harry offered weakly. "He's... different."

Dr. Granger looked back at Malfoy. "Look, you don't seem like a bad young man - though not the most enlightened, I must say - but I'm never going to approve of pretty much any boyfriend Hermione brings home. I didn't like Weasley, since he seemed a bit dim..."

"Very well spotted, Sir," Malfoy said with conviction.

"I didn't like that Romanian... or Russian... whatever... boy she picked up for a while." He paused. "But you don't need anyone's permission to marry her. It's a sort of cute anachronism, I suppose, to ask for it. But the only person's permission you need to worry about is Hermione's. You're not asking to borrow my lawnmower. You're asking to wed her. All I want is someone that treats her well."

"Well if that's what you're worrying about, Sir, I promise, I will be an excellent husband. I've already secured a job and a place to live and a more than adequate gift of matrimonial jewellery for her."

"Jewellery?" Dr. Granger again glanced over at Harry. "How much time has he actually spent with Hermione?"

"He's... very, very different, Sir." Harry shrugged. "But he and Hermione seem to get along well, so we generally overlook his eccentricity."

Dr. Granger pushed his glasses up his nose and scrutinized Draco for a moment.

"Look, you don't need my permission. Just go and ask her, if that's what you think she wants." Dr. Granger's brow furrowed, and he seemed to scrutinize Draco's front teeth. "How long has it been since you've had a proper tooth cleaning? I have a cancellation this afternoon, and if you're serious about Hermione, I think it's important to make your oral health a priority."

Harry stood suddenly, muttering something about an afternoon meeting and hurrying out. And Draco realized that he'd been ditched, and left to the whims of the tooth driller.

He shivered as the evil dentist began to mutter something about polishers and chisels.

He really hoped Hermione didn't turn him down, after all of this.

* * *

**AN: Another day, another chapter - this time, inspired by a comment from a reader (HarryPGinnyW4eva) and a PM from another reader whom I'll keep anonymous. So, if anyone has further ideas, feel free to leave me a review... or even leave a review if you have no ideas, since they generally inspire me to write. :) **


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